


The Dogged Days of J.T.K.

by arrowinthesky (restfulsky5)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alien Culture, Angst, Dehumanization, Diary/Journal, Dissociation, Disturbing Themes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Hurt Bones, Hurt Jim, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Loss of Identity, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Missions Gone Wrong, Multiple Personalities, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot Twists, Post-Star Trek: Into Darkness, Romance, Slow Worldbuilding, Suspense, Tags left out to avoid spoilers, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-10-23 23:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 45,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17693330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restfulsky5/pseuds/arrowinthesky
Summary: Eden sounds like the perfect place for a new beginning. Why does it look like a terrible end?Jim makes his way up the ranks to First Man in a twisted fashion, his own life at risk—but no one, least of all McCoy, knows why.





	1. 1.1 Neighborly

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the wonderful diamondblue4 & junker5 for looking over these chapters for me. ❤️ I am so thankful for your support!
> 
> I will be updating on a regular schedule—every two to three days. I’m super inspired for this and writing ahead—so this will work out nicely. I’m also treating this story as a writing exercise, which means that these chapters will be much shorter than my usual fare. (Hence the quick updates!) It’s also ambiguous in both storytelling and morality—you will have to fill in the blanks for much of it. If you’re triggered by darker things—even if when they’re a bit “crackish”—proceed with caution. I’m not tagging that much for this one, because many things are inferred, whether or not they are true, so this is your warning. :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy the read!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve copied part of my notes from Chapter 4 here in this first note just to make sure everyone is on the right track when you begin reading:
> 
> FTR, Jim is not dead. Neither is Bones. This is not a world Jim created in his head. This is much more real than many of you are assuming. And that is going to make things suspenseful for awhile...and angstier...but hang in there. More will come to light with each chapter. And if I sense everyone veering off into the distance with ideas, I’ll try to steer you back. 
> 
> Also, this takes place some time after Into Darkness, but it’s more like an AU. Beyond, therefore, does not take place in this Verse. Hope this helps as you read! :)

 

 

1.1  
NEIGHBORLY

 

The day after McCoy moves in, I finally realize just how tough having a doctor around is going to be.

 

He may be good-looking—more like drop dead gorgeous—but he doesn’t know my fear of needles, my extreme aversion to doctors, or my dreadful, cursed history with planets. Or the fact that I spend more time in the hospital emergency rooms than I like, not because I want to use credits I don’t have, but because—I can’t ignore idiots. And I have a problem—excuse me—an unlucky habit—of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

 

And he’ll never know, not if I can help it.

 

But it’s the 23rd century. We know about more planets than we know what to do with, more civilizations than we can understand. A doctor can practically read the minds of their patients if they want to. Not that it will be legal or ethical for him to do so, but I won’t put it past this one.

 

I stand on the porch, bare feet tingling from the heat of the floorboards. “So, uh, McCoy is it?”

 

He levels his phaser at me.

 

I swallow. “Right. You know it’s set to kill, right?”

 

“Is it?” he says, a snarl tipping up the ragged edge of a scarred lip. It doesn’t quite fit him. “I didn't notice.”

 

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about what it’s set to, actually.”

 

“Oh, that’s a relief. Wasn’t going to change the damn setting on account of you, anyway.”

 

“Really,” I say, fighting a smile despite myself. “It’ll make things easier for me.”

 

His eyes narrow. He’s suspicious of me, already, but that isn’t new. “You’re not afraid to die? You have a death wish or something?”

 

“Do you? You’re the one holding that damn thing.”

 

“ _Do_ you?”

 

“Not particularly—already done it once—I just.” I pause and scratch my nose.

 

He rolls his eyes. “What?”

 

“Well, I don’t think you have good aim and there’s a single mom living in that house behind me.”

 

Now his lips curl into a full-fledged snarl, but his gaze flickers past my shoulder to the white-picket fence of Galyn Shandy’s bright, two-story home and the foot-high dog that has not stopped barking at us since a Chevy barreled down the road. I’ve always hated that dog, a stray, not that I don’t like dogs. I do—just not that one. I swear it’s the thing digging in my garden each night. Maybe I should grab the phaser, myself.

 

Maybe I should stay focused.

 

“I could miss and get the dog, instead,” he’s telling me. “Quiet its yipping.”

 

I shake my head slowly, hoping to rid myself of other crazy thoughts. I hope I’m not influencing him. There’ve been enough strange things happening around this place. And...I think that’s what happened before. Why no one lives beside me anymore. “You wouldn’t be able to hit it, even if you tried.”

 

He looks at me, offended. “I’m not that bad an aim.”

 

I nod towards his arms and the phaser he’s holding in a death grip despite his hand’s obvious weakness. “Your hand’s shaking.”

 

Immediately, he wraps his other hand around it, gritting his teeth as if that alone will stop the tremors. “Dammit.”

 

“Here,” I say, walking forward. “Let...let me...I’ll just—”

 

He grunts and pulls away from me.

 

I twist my body so I’m flush with his, finding his shoulder then sliding my hand down his arm.

 

He smells like sweat and aftershave. Like pine. “Get away from me, kid—”

 

I can’t let go. “—just let me—”

 

“No, for crying out lou—”

 

“—Are you crazy? You can’t point that—”

 

“It’s gonna—”

 

“Give it—”

 

“Christ—”

 

“Let go,” I growl.

 

His lips touch my ear. “Not on your life, Darlin’,” he breathes into it.

 

I startle. The phaser fires.

 

My jaw goes slack as the shot goes clean through two trees, narrowly misses the dog, and hits the front door of Galyn’s house, leaving a hole in the middle of it. I stare at it, seeing right though the house to Galyn’s kitchen table, where her daughter usually sits every evening.

 

The idiot. My neighbor is an idiot.

 

“Are you nuts?” I seethe, the weapon now in my hands. “Someone could’ve been standing right there!”

 

“Who?”

 

I gape at him. Had he not heard me before? “Galyn. And her—her daughter.”

 

“Huh.” He comes onto his porch, expression blank. “Good thing it’s—” He looks at his watch. “—lunchtime. She’s in school, right?”

 

“She could have been sick—and home from school!”

 

After a moment, he shrugs. “Oh, well.”

 

“Oh…oh, well?” I decide right then and there—I want a new neighbor. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

 

“What do you want from me?”

 

“I want you to leave, that’s what.”

 

He looks down at my hand. At the phaser. The weapon I don’t want to hold. “You’re pretty good with that.”

 

My finger grazes the trigger.

 

“Aren’t you?” he asks.

 

My heart catches in my throat. “What?”

 

“The phaser. You’re pretty good with that,” he repeats. “Lifted it right out of my hand once you found the pressure point.”

 

I try not to look at him—or the phaser—God—I can’t believe I’m holding it—but I do. “Yeah?” I say.

 

My voice cracks.

 

I don’t want it to.

 

I lift the phaser, but it weighs like a ton. I struggle to give it back. He reaches out and meets me halfway, then takes it as if it weighs nothing.

 

At least it’s now set to stun. I managed to adjust the setting—and save probably both our hides—well, I’m not sure when. “Why do you have a military-issued weapon, anyway?” I ask.

 

He cocks his head at me, and with what looks like all the patience in the world, says, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

 

My bare feet dig into the hot wood. I breathe fire. Smoke. Ash. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

 

His eyes are liquid-warmth, honey in the middle, oozing a strange kindness. “No, that’s not true, Jim.”

 

I backpedal, wishing I had on clothes without holes, maybe even clothes that were washed. Clean. New. Not the rags I cherish.

 

“Jim,” he says, starting towards me.

 

Running backwards, stumbling down the steps and onto the grass is a fool-hardy mistake, I fall on my ass, breath frozen, pain trailing up my tailbone. I’m so shocked at hearing my name I’m not even embarrassed. Being clumsy is like a second skin to me.

 

He looks at me with a broken expression. “Jim,” he whispers.

 

I feel my world shrinking, but I don’t know why. “H-how do you know—my name?”

 

But he doesn’t answer. He’s frozen in time with me. My heart beats, over and over, a warning to get the hell out of here while I still can. But I can’t seem to move, my gaze locked on him.

 

An eternity passes before McCoy clamps his mouth shut, and returns, walking like an older man, shoulders bent, to his house.

 

The door shuts quietly behind him.

 

I’m alone. At some point the dog has stopped its incessant barking. Silence roars in my ears.

 

I blink, hating it, hating being here, vulnerable, and stagger to my feet, letting the wind blow back my hair. I’ve let it grow, the longest since—

 

I turn with reluctance, half-hoping he’ll come out to see me, explain the confusion that courses through my head like lava, burning my brain cells, destroying it in its wake.

 

As I walk home, my eyes dart up and down the street, everywhere and anywhere, but at the only house on this block whose owner knows my name.

 

There’s a new neighbor in town. And even though he’s easy on the eyes, I can’t think of anything else other than that it’ll be hell for me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re following my other fics—THANK YOU! I am continuing them. I’m just at a point in my life where my fanfic writing has slowed down. Trying to remedy that! I feel this fandom/ship dying down a little and it saddens me. I want to do my part to try to turn it back around. 
> 
> Expect an update for Down the Savage Mountain very soon, if not this weekend!
> 
> Please, review?


	2. 1.2 Sour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support, everyone! Here’s another chapter, a bit early. Hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 1.2  
SOUR

 

The first thing I do when I get in the house is close all the blinds.

 

Living in Eden you lose your sense of privacy. It’s not a huge deal, when you know how to work around it and when you’re comfortable in your own skin, like I am. Plus, you wouldn’t know it by my inability to take the neighbor’s phaser from him sooner, but I’ve always been a people person.

 

But...meeting McCoy had been awkward. I’ve been relaxed in my ways since the others moved out. Galyn usually keeps to herself. She never bothers me except when I’m jogging. I’ve gotten used to it. People who live down the street—and that damn dog—that’s another story. But they can’t see my house from where they piss, or take a walk, or leave their trash out.

 

I’ve got nothing if not trees.

 

I planted them the first year I lived here. They weren’t exactly seedlings or easy to handle. I dragged them on top of the mounds I made.

 

I needed something else to do with my hands, the rougher and dirtier the better, something to work up a sweat, and there was a garden shop on the first corner when you get to town. They always have a good stock of shrubs, flowers, fruit trees— you name it. At the time of day I go, there’s not many people around. Although a few times I’ve run into one of the Caretakers at the hospital. Her name is Trish. I think I knew her sister at one time, but every time I try to picture her face—I see red.

 

Ever since leaving McCoy’s yard, I’ve had this miserable taste in my mouth. I need something to fix it and I open my refrigerator, desperate for something, anything, cool and refreshing. The shelves are full of items I bought from the grocery store, and other items I barely look at. I can’t think of them right now.

 

Instead, I grab a yogurt, and slam the refrigerator door shut. Backing away, one foot at a time, a jazz song running through my head, I fumble open the silverware drawer. It jingles as I slide it further out. I grab the spoon in the back—the only one among dozens of knives—and head for the living room to sit on my couch, feet up, staring at my closed blinds. The lines form rows of soldiers, mindless in their devotion. I blink, and the lines are the book I finished reading last night. A second later, they’re the human body, its wrinkles and creases, and unprecedented divisions.

 

I take a slow bite of vanilla cream yogurt. It slides down my throat, cool and flowing, easing the anxiety that I’ve put off my hot neighbor forever. My heart pounds. My ass aches where I’d fallen.

 

The yogurt catches in my throat, turning sour. I want to spit it out, but I didn’t bring a napkin with me and I need the calories. I hate filling the trash bins in the house, anyway.

 

The next bite tastes just as awful, the third makes me want to puke, and I nearly manage to do so, despite not having a receptacle handy.

 

I force myself to swallow it down. I’m not completely without willpower. Hastily setting the yogurt aside on the coffee table, my foot snags on one of the table legs as I rise, but I stumble forward, making it up the stairs, anyway.

 

Nothing’s going to satisfy my craving now. If the yogurt doesn’t help, I’ll have to resort to—

 

The doorbell rings, disrupting my frantic thoughts. I freeze at the top of the steps. Galyn never bothers me and as far as I know, the other houses around me aren’t inhabited yet. It has to be someone from down the street—or McCoy.

 

I run my hand across my brow, the back of my hand sliding in the sweat rather than removing it. I blink, and wetness fills my eyes again.

 

This always happens when I feel pressed in from all corners.

 

The doorbell sounds again, and a knock follows. A loud knock.

 

“Impatient, are we?” I mutter.

 

Bracing myself with one arm against the wall, I turn and take the stairs two at a time, ignoring my painful leg.

 

All the corners in my house are damned sharp—I know this one is a bruiser.

 

Right before I open the door, I catch myself, looking down at my attire. I need a shower, but I don’t have to remind myself how long that will take. Showers—do something to me I don’t like. Clean clothes do the same, but I don’t have the time or the wherewithal to look nicer for unexpected guests.

 

I clear my throat and open the door, smile plastered on my face.

 

“You,” I say.

 

I am surprised. I don’t usually make good first impressions, which makes me try harder when I get a second chance.

 

McCoy takes a good look at me but doesn’t head in the opposite direction. He’s steady, shocking me, again.

 

“Expecting the Easter Bunny?”

 

“Who?”

 

His eyes widen. “You don’t know….?” He sighs, muttering unintelligibly to himself.

 

“What?”

 

“The Easter B—” he begins, then waves his next words away. “Never mind. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

 

“Um, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

“I—“ The man’s cheeks pinked. “I didn’t handle that well. Our first meeting.”

 

I shrug. “I’ve had worse.”

 

His mouth dips down angrily. “Is that right?”

 

I nod cheerily. “You wanna come in?”

 

I open the door more, expecting the forthright invite to chase him away so I can try to formulate a plan for making it through my day with my sanity in tact, but he brushes past me—and stands looking into my house.

 

“God, it looks…” He spins around, taking in every bare nook and cranny. “Lonely.”

 

Something ugly curls in my chest, wanting out. “It isn’t now.”

 

His eyes slide back to me. “You sure you’re okay?”

 

I feel myself growing angry. “Listen, I don’t know you, and you’ve asked me that twice, now.”

 

“Sorry.” He winces. “I just—I’d like to apologize.”

 

“None needed. Can you go?”

 

But I want him to stay.

 

He licks his lips, showing the barest hint of teeth. If I gave him my yogurt, he’d open that mouth of his and show me more.

 

God, I want more.

 

I find the courage I need to make him stay and ask, “Hungry?”

 

I don’t imagine his hesitation, but I do ignore it.

 

He moistens his bottom lip with one swipe of his tongue. “Sure. I haven’t gone to the store yet, you know.”

 

“No, I didn’t know.”

 

His smile falters. “Right. How could you?”

 

I nod. “Follow me.”

 

He pads down the hallway with me to the kitchen. I motion to the barstool and counter when we go in and go to the refrigerator in the opposite of the room. He watches me without blinking. I feel his eyes. His beautiful, hazel eyes.

 

I take the strawberry yogurt out this time, but my mind stalls out after I give it to him. “Shit.”

 

“What?” he asks, eyebrows raising.

 

It’s my turn to blush. Because—who the hell doesn’t have spoons in their kitchen?

 

Me. That’s who.

 

“I need to get my spoon,” I say.

 

“I, uh...okay?”

 

I smile tightly. He watches me again, as if he’d been waiting for me to move a certain way, gaze drifting to my ass. He knows me alright—

 

Unsettled, I take my time returning with my own yogurt and spoon. I remove the spoon from the carton, find the soap, and start to wash the spoon, the water flowing over my skin, taming it. As if it could ever tame me.

 

“Wait,” he says, coming behind me. “Is that really your only —?”

 

His words fade. He’s standing a breath away, his chest inches from my back.

 

I scream, silently—Too close—too close!

 

His head bleeds into my personal space.

 

My breath is shallow, voice weak. “My only spoon.”

 

The image of my knife set flickers in my mind. I’d like to show him why I have no room for more spoons, but I prefer this—his breath skating along my skin. The heat that it brings. The passion it stirs in the pit of my stomach, my groin.

 

He stares at the spoon. “Jesus, Jim,” he whispers.

 

“I’ll clean it. I promise.”

 

But he leans forward, lips nipping my ear. At least, I think they do. I want them to. His breath is heavy and sweet. Mine, rough and tormented. I want to kiss—

 

He reaches for my hand but grabs my wrist—and squeezes. I hiss as he stares at my arm with a dawning horror in his eyes. “What are those lines from?” he demands.

 

The hair on the back of my neck stands straight up.

 

I drop the spoon as if it’s on fire. It clatters, breaking the spell as he lets go of me. Water runs off my hands in a multitude of uncontrollable rivulets.

 

His are wet now, too, the water glistening like diamonds tossed delicately across his skin.

 

It’s beautiful.

 

McCoy’s breath hitches. “Jim.”

 

The name sounds strange to me in his strangled, hurt voice. I’m not sure I want to hear it spoken like that again—and I’m not sure what I’ll have to do to stop it from happening.

 

I shut off the water and turn around, my backside crushed against the sink when McCoy moves in, his larger body blocking me from escaping. The counter digs into my back. “You need to leave,” I grit out.

 

His gaze fixates on me for a full minute, eyes uncertain, body language too familiar.

 

I have no truth to offer him. He unnerves me by his mere standing.

 

“Now,” I demand as if I pull the weight around here, yet a shiver travels down my spine.

 

He sees it and nods.

 

He leaves—no other words spoken—taking the strawberry yogurt with him, and all of my questions. I wish he’d taken my unfinished yogurt, too. It will haunt me until I dispose of it.

 

And if I slip outside at night, it’s not to take out the trash.

 

When his aftershave is gone from the air, I’m alone—again.

 

I bite the inside of my mouth until it bleeds over the awful, sour taste of self-loathing in my mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll reply to comments soon. Sometimes, it takes me awhile to respond due to various factors, but I will! Thanks again for being so wonderful!


	3. 1.3 Sweat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to post this a little early again. Give you more to think about for the weekend. ;) The usual ambiguous warnings from me. Enjoy!

1.3  
SWEAT

 

The first sound I hear is my own breathing. It sinks deep into my chest and rises, escaping my lips as a ragged moan, only to fall again, now trapped. I don’t know where I am, or what I’ve done, but then it hits me—the cycle has repeated itself.

 

“Mr. Kirk?”

 

Someone is speaking my name from far away, and I hear it as if in a dream, the sound as blurred as my other senses. Slowly, and painfully, the sounds around me come to life, piercing my ears with their whirls and signals. I’m unused to them, except for when I’m here.

 

A cacophony of machines blare their warnings to me, a computer repeats the words, “Alert. Code yellow,” in a shrill automated voice, and a pair of humanoid voices are behind me, becoming more audible.

 

I squeeze my eyes closed until they burn, shutting reality out. I’m overcome by the flood of information.

 

“Mr. Kirk, you need to look at me.”

 

My head is too full to shake, crammed full of memories that don’t make sense. “How…” But my words fail me. I’m standing here, not knowing how I got here.

 

I squeeze my fingers together in a makeshift fist. Liquid, thick, oozing liquid, fills them, coating my fingers until I can’t separate skin from goop.

 

I open my hands, then close them again. Squish. Smack. Squish!

 

My breath escapes, a whimper of excitement. “I—I don’t know h-ho-how—”

 

“I know.” The Caregiver strokes my arm. I don’t feel worthy to be comforted, so I’m not. “I know. But we don’t care what happened, only that we need to get you cleaned up.”

 

There’s a pause, a shuffling of more feet towards me.

 

“Make sure you’re not hurt,” she continues.

 

Why does she care if I’m hurt? I don’t. My heart beats like a cloud, puffing up, then shrinking again. I stand still to pull it back, the only thing I have left to control, wanting to feel again, but the beckoning emotions are unbearable. I harden myself to them. I’m afraid if I don’t, I’ll pop the cloud, and it will empty, pouring out onto everyone around me.

 

I let the Caregiver take me to the back room. It is a hospital, after all.

 

“Those morons, again?” she asks, her rich, gentle soul leaking into each word.

 

I don’t know how an insult can sound so beautiful, but it does. And I don’t know how I know her soul is pure, but I do.

 

She’s cleaning my hands when I finally open my eyes. Chocolate skin wipes the red away, with a forceful scrub of a cloth. She’s not wearing the same gloves as the others. These are clear. She’s letting me see her.

 

“Aren’t you afraid of me?” I whisper.

 

I’ve never looked directly into a Caregiver’s face when I’m being treated, and I won’t stare now. Something about it is too personal—and I have to protect her. I have seen her behind the glass, when I walk with all my faculties in the corridor, needing serviced.

 

But when I’m broken, and alone, like this, I can’t risk it. It’s too close. It’s too much.

 

She doesn’t say anything, but when she does, I know she’s lying. “What is there to be afraid of?”

 

It settles me, proving I am as weak as I think I am.

 

A smile lifts my lip, my feet lifting off the floor as I sit down in the chair they provided. I’m weightless, and hardly feel the prick on my arm.

 

“It’ll be okay, Jim,” she promises.

 

My head clears after a moment, and when I open my eyes, she’s gone. A blonde male is in her place, frowning at me. “You’re still feeling it, aren’t you?”

 

“What did I do?” I ask hoarsely.

 

“Nothing we can’t fix,” he says.

 

They always say that.

 

He kneels and slips shoes onto my feet.

 

I’d forgotten to put shoes on again. “Sorry.”

 

“What’s our rule?” He challenges me, also adjusting my pant leg, which had stuck to my shins.

 

Red flecks the floor, beside the slippers he wants me to wear now.

 

I stare at the spots, mesmerized.

 

“Shit,” he mutters, lifting me up by the elbow. “Code White,” he speaks into his communicator.

 

“The Cleansing,” I say robotically.

 

He grunts. “Yeah.”

 

I think of the maze of halls, each identical to the next, nothing as to which to identify them with. As if they want to purposely confuse the patients here. “I don’t know where it is.”

 

“We know. I’ll take you there.”

 

He waits for me to speak. Something about this feels wrong, but longing cracks my heart, showing me the empty places within, holes that I didn’t know even existed. I nod, for I will follow him like a horse being led to water. Anything to get this over as quickly as possible.

 

My thirst is unquenchable—I will drink until the sauna is dry and depleted, nothing left but desert. I will stay while they Service me, desperate to feel like myself again—and they all know it.

 

He leaves me once we reach the sauna, but the Caregiver is there again. My Caregiver. Mine.

 

She hadn’t left me. “Nurse.” I breathe out a strange-yet-familiar-word.

 

She smiles, and although I can tell it isn’t completely confident, it is genuine. I wonder if she doesn’t understand how dangerous I am, after all.

 

“Yes, it’s me, and I brought other clothes for you, Mr. Kirk.” She gestures towards the neat stack of clothing I’m supposed to wear next.

 

Although she continues to talk to me, commenting on the gash on my forehead that is now numb, and will need to be rechecked tomorrow by them, I’ve shut her out, already. My gaze lingers on the pile on the long bench. I’ll sit next to it, I suppose, wait until the steam overtakes me, purging me of this sickness pervading my life.

 

I want to go back home.

 

Home is where I’m safe. McCoy says it’s lonely, but I think it’s perfect. Everything I need is there. I don’t care about clean clothes, or their smiles, or their soft words.

 

I pause. Or do I?

 

“Press this button when you’re done,” she says. “Your towels’ hanging up beside you, like they always are.”

 

I can’t look up, but I sit, fully clothed. It’s her cue to leave.

 

I stay as the room starts to fill up with hot, purging steam. It’s time to strip, but I move as if I’m the one who has been beaten.

 

But that’s not true.

 

I remove the slippers, first. The pair of ugly slippers I wear every time they make me do this. I stretch my arms like a cat and rid my body of the tattered thing I call a t-shirt. I shimmy out of my jeans next, catching my toe on one holes in the leg. I suppose the people here want me to feel grateful that they’ve given me new attire, but I feel nothing but anxious expectation for what’s next.

 

The Cleansing.

 

I can’t see anything now. The room suffocates my brain, as well as my sight. I allow the heat to prick my skin, my eyes, my brain. I wish it would rid the thoughts I have of my neighbor, who has enough sense to greet me with a phaser.

 

No one else has ever done that. I call him a stranger, because he is a stranger to me. He’s strange.

 

But if McCoy were here, he’d be slick with sweat, the same as me, proving we’re not so much different.

 

If he were here, his hand would find my hip. He’d scoot closer, pressing his left buttock into my right, thighs touching. I’d feel the heat rising from his body, covering me. His eyes brewing with a yearning that mirrors my own. His mouth claiming something wild, not understanding what it meant for him. Or the risk.

 

I lean my head back, closing my eyes to envision the man who pervades my wild dreams. I do dream, although my nightmares prevail. That hasn’t changed since I moved here three years ago. Eden isn’t as fruitful as other places I’ve lived, contrary to its name, although I have no clear recollection of my previous residences. But—I do know this. It’s instinct.

 

He’s in my dreams, just as he’s here now, with me.

 

His hands are on me, exploring lower and patiently in their hunt, and I’m the prey. Always the hunted. He parts my legs, handling the prize with the roughness of a calloused hand, bringing me to complete hardness, my longing taking my breath away because it’s been a lifetime for me since I’ve been Workable. I-I’ve forgotten. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be touched there. I yearn for more, and while his touch slows and deepens, I realize, strangely, it’s an unexpectedly calloused hand.

 

Clashing thoughts trickle down my spine like a rivulet of cold water.

 

He’s a doctor—his hands should be smooth.

 

I wonder what else I’d missed about him, but his lips nip at my neck, the playful bites chasing the longing that I repress with all my strength.

 

He breathes my name, the names of each body part he’s caressing. He seems to know me—or know of me. Are they talking about me behind my back? Does he work here? He must—

 

But it doesn’t matter. Not much. He touches me where no one else does, hands sliding down the planes of my back, even though I’ve not given him permission in this moment. Even so, my mind registers that this touching is okay, that I’ve consented to it before.

 

I give up fighting this raging storm. He clearly has, as well, although it would be better to forget about me. But, it’s too late. He’s already tangled up in the wildness.

 

I lose myself in his hands, his breath, his everything. There’s nothing I want more than to be locked in a deeper embrace, and I cling to him, the ragged edge of my nails digging like tiny claws into his skin.

 

I imagine his smile, his calm voice telling me that it was okay, that he’d marked me with his love long—

 

“Jim?”

 

My body stiffens from head to toe. My hand stops its creeping up my chest, now cradled at the sternum.

 

I think I’ve broken them before. Sternums. But not mine.

 

Others.

 

“Jim, you’ve been in here too long.”

 

It’s him. That husky voice, all concern when it shouldn’t be.

 

He sighs from behind the curtain of fog. I squint to see him.

 

“It’s not safe, not with the medication you’re on,” he says.

 

“Where are you?” I breathe finally.

 

He must step forward, to show himself to me. The faint outline of his shape appears, rekindling my desire.

 

I swallow hard. “Where?” I ask again.

 

He steps into my sight, eyes probing mine, seeing straight into them. I want to fight this sense of invasion, but I’m too exhausted to care.

 

His eyes crinkle with worry. “Can you walk?”

 

I can barely lift my head.

 

“Okay,” he says softly. “I’ll find someone to help you.”

 

He leaves, cooler air breaching the warmth around me in his wake, not hearing me ask— _why not you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll post the next chapter Sunday, but Monday at the latest. I want to stay at least five chapters ahead of you all! 
> 
> I’m hoping to update Down the Savage Mountain this weekend—got a little behind on my writing thanks to the crazy weather around here. Anyone else’s body a weather forecaster like mine? ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Please, review? :)


	4. 1.4 Fissure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your interest in this story! I know it’s been a little wild and disconcerting to see Jim like this, to say the least. I’ve decided to clue you in on a couple of things, mainly because I didn’t realize so many of you would conjecture this was all in Jim’s head. Or, rather, that this was a world he created to survive something horrible. And because that’s a beautiful idea ya’ll—it really is!—but it is not exactly what is happening here. It’s too close to what Jim is doing (or will do) in another fic of mine, and I need to make a distinction between the two, so you get a few spoilers at this point. I hope this isn’t too disappointing! I’d hate to disappoint any of you, but maybe it’ll help and you can enjoy the story more with this added detail. ❤️ 
> 
> So, FTR: Jim is not dead. Neither is Bones. This is not a world Jim created in his head. This is much more real than many of you are assuming. And that is going to make things suspenseful for awhile...and angstier...but hang in there. More will come to light with each chapter. And if I sense everyone veering off into the distance with ideas, I’ll try to steer you back. I hope this helps!
> 
> I also added a post Into Darkness tag just to set this story somewhere specifically in the AOS timeline. It is a bit of an AU, and Beyond will NOT happen in this verse. :)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!

  
1.4  
FISSURE

 

 

They’ve sent me in home in the slippers. Fucking ugly neon yellow ones with glittery fuzzy stuff on the top. They’re hideous, but they make me smile. I think Nurse put them on my feet, to make me laugh.

 

I don’t realize I’m wearing them until I’m awake the following day, weakened by their questions, their stares, their presence. But by the Cleansing, most of all. When I go home, I don’t get my bearings for two more days, and watch comedy in my living room, laughing until my sides hurt, eating from a small cart Peekers provided by my couch.

 

I forget what I’ve watched as soon as the screen is black and fall asleep the third night, feeling more like myself.

 

I hate the trash I’ve left around me the next day. I am not a slob, but these hospital visits make me one. Dutifully, I pick things up, tidy my room, and head outside for a walk.

 

I’ve all but forgotten McCoy until he steps beside me, matching me step for step.

 

Although his dark hair is smooth and settles over one side of his face, hiding his eye, I do not want or need a companion.

 

What I am, however, is suspicious.

 

I steal a selfish, sideways glance at him. His profile is delicious, I think, as my stomach grumbles.

 

I must not have eaten enough.

 

I blow out a breath. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Enjoying the fresh air.”

 

I snort. Eden smells like roses, cucumbers, and sin. I wonder what he really thinks of it. “I mean, with me?”

 

He shrugs, narrowing his eyes on Galyn’s door.

 

It’s fixed.

 

“She wasn’t home when I went over to apologize,” he says.

 

“She’s never home.”

 

He frowns. “But you see her.”

 

“I mean. She’s never home when I go over, either.”

 

I jog with her, but don’t mention it. The less McCoy understands, the better.

 

He shakes the thought away.

 

“She must work a lot,” McCoy says, obviously phishing for details.

 

I nod, but don’t offer anything else about the private life of the single mother. It’s not his business. Or my business. Although, in fact, it is. Everything is.

 

“Babysitter?”

 

I’ve never thought of that before and slow down. When I look at McCoy, and the trees along the sidewalk, I want to be out here, like this, forever. “I...I think her daughter’s old enough to be home. Alone.”

 

He looks surprised at that. “Really.”

 

“Not much goes on around here.”

 

He blinks.

 

It’s a lie. He knows it’s a lie.

 

I lie, again, anyway. “It’s boring, actually.”

 

An awkward silence falls between us. I usually enjoy the silence, but not this time. Not with him.

 

I clear my dry throat. It’s always a side effect of the meds they give me after a fistfight. If that was what happened. “So you work at the hospital, huh?”

 

He nods. “It’s nice.”

 

“I...I was surprised.”

 

“To see me?”

 

“You didn’t say, before.”

 

“You were trying to take my phaser.”

 

“You were trying to shoot me.”

 

“I didn’t know you.”

 

It even sounds like a lie. “Yeah, you do.”

 

His eyes harden. “You’re mistaken.”

 

“But you said—”

 

“I don’t know you,” he says quietly.

 

Pause. “Well, then, I’m Jim.” I stop and hold out my hand.

 

He folds his hand around my entire hand. It’s a strong, firm grip. And warm. Unbelievably warm. “Leonard McCoy, new neighbor and now—your doctor.”

 

A prickly, uneasy sensation falls over me. I pull away, back away, and head straight-away for my house. “I gotta go.”

 

“Wait—Jim—”

 

His drawling kindness causes the sensation to grow and I shake my head, like a dog shaking water, denying his request, his attempt to find me in the scattered pieces of who I am. I can’t stand it. I take off running. A sudden headache tears through my skull as soon as I cut through a neighbor’s yard.

 

“—dammit, I didn’t mean to scare you off—”

 

He’s after me, and I’m after me, I can’t stand it—he needs to go away.

 

He needs to go away.

 

I run until I reach the sanctuary of my home, out of breath, body sagging back against the door to close it. I slowly slide onto the floor, my back against the only wall separating me—from him. From them. His footsteps are as patient as his eyes, and as I take a shuddering a breath, I reach up to lock the door.

 

There are Robot Peekers in my house every time I get back from the hospital, like they think I’m stupid—but I forgot to find and remove them when I returned home—so maybe I am stupid—and here, I have to lock my own damn door with my own damn hand to keep him out.

 

And hope he doesn’t axe it down like Finnegan had a year ago.

 

I shiver—and can’t stop. I hope it’s merely a side effect of the medications they’ve given me, and not because of other Strange Things, but I can’t be sure.

 

I cross my arms, now unbelievably cold. Frozen. Even the Strange Thing that slips out of the corner of my eye freezes as I wait for McCoy to leave me alone.

 

As I wait.

 

And wait.

 

And wait.

 

That’s Eden for you. Primitive.

 

Just like its inhabitants.

 

Just like... _me_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I’ll update Tuesday!


	5. 1.5 Open

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small warning that I’m not warning much. The visuals are subtle in this fic...and also very much under interpretation and ambiguous (purposefully so)...so if you’re sensitive, be cautious. :)

  
1.5  
OPEN

 

 

I coax her out of the closet, like a kitten, once the door creaks and cracks to let the light in. “Here, Girl, Girl!” I call softly at her. “Time to come out. It’s safe now.”

 

She keeps her eye on my crooked finger, scooting herself out on her behind until she’s well past the rug and inches away from me.

 

“You found me,” she says, the smile I’m used to seeing on her gone.

 

“Uh, huh,” I whisper, narrowing my eyes. She’s pink and bows, with red trim that must be cleaned, too. “You know I’ll always find you.”

 

Her gaze skitters across the carpet. She wrinkles her nose. “I left a trail.”

 

“I cleaned most of it up.”

 

She hugs her knees to her chest. “Why?”

 

It’s not my responsibility. I’m not sure why I did it for her. I’m not sure why I keep my mouth shut about her at all.

 

“You’re like me,” she answers for me. “And I’m like you.”

 

I sit beside her, arms dangling off of my knees. “Yep. So you don’t have to worry.”

 

“I know.”

 

It’s that simple between us.

 

“I’ll take you to the doctor, if you want,” I say.

 

She looks up at me. “Doctor?”

 

“You’re cured now, Girl,” I say confidently, remembering my training. “You can go.”

 

Relief fills her eyes, then hesitation.

 

I squeeze her knee, gently. “What is it?”

 

“I like it here. I feel free.”

 

It’s hard to swallow when indecision pierces my conscience. “You are Free.”

 

“Why aren’t you?”

 

I think of my visits to the hospital. The Cleansing. The Robot Peekers. And now McCoy. The power they don’t give me but make me believe I have. And I am still only Man #4. “They want me to do more, I think.”

 

Her eyes widen. “But not me?”

 

“I don’t think so, kiddo.”

 

She snuggles against me, yawning. Trusting. A big brother I am not, but I can’t find it within myself to leave her, to let her deal with things alone.

 

It doesn’t seem right—but that just makes it more confusing.

 

My heart thumps and flutters in my chest like a trapped bird in a cage. Once she leaves, I don’t think it will ever stop.

 

“Don’t forget Snoops,” she whispers.

 

I have to tell her about the stray she loves, and named, and I never feel regret, but I do now. She’s Cured—all will be well—if not even more lonely without their company—but my heart strangely aches, too, while it beats, like something is being scooped out of it. “He went missing.”

 

“Oh.” She pauses. “When?”

 

“I haven’t heard his barking for two days.”

 

——————-

 

I’ve tried to eat my dinner once McCoy returns. I let him let himself in. I know he’s angry with me before I turn around.

 

“Who the devil do you think you are?” he hisses at me.

 

I have no answer.

 

I stop toying with my mashed potatoes and push my plate aside. It’s mostly full. I can never finish things when people leave, like Girl.

 

“For crying out loud, Jim,” he suddenly says, hustling to the table. He changes his tune as he points at the food. “It’s not playdough.”

 

I don’t know what that is.

 

“A toy,” he grits out.

 

I don’t think I want to be around Angry McCoy and slip out of my chair like lightning.

 

I was almost struck by lightning here, once. I felt it. I imagined it marking me, my skin turning crisp. Brown. Red. Toasted strips, with a smell so delectable I could already taste them.

 

I lick my lips, and do a one-eighty.

 

He stops me with his arm on my chest. I freeze. “Woah,” he says. “Where are you going?”

 

“Bacon.”

 

He glances at my plate, then back at me. “You won’t eat that—a well-rounded and delicious meal—but you want to fry up some bacon?”

 

“I like it raw.”

 

Something changes in his face. His voice, too. “R-raw?”

 

I nod, not trusting mine. Why do I keep upsetting him? It’s a lie. I hate raw bacon, raw anything, but lines have appeared along his forehead that weren’t there before.

 

“God, Jim.” His hand drops.

 

His hand drops with a flash attached to it, and I stare at it.

 

He’s wearing a ring. I think it’s a ring. It glistens in my kitchen, makes me think of things I only see in my dreams. And nightmares, too. I wonder if he’s not a doctor after all, but someone like Galyn.

 

Sent to destroy.

 

I back away, but his hand darts out. He catches my chin in an unyielding grip, pulling me out of the darkness. “Where’d ya go just now, hmm?”

 

His fingers dig into my bone. My instinct is to fight it, but I see the pain mixed with challenge—and it intrigues me. I want to see more, so I provoke him.

 

“To Eden I must go, throwing my heart away to live,” I announce.

 

His face breaks, like I want it to, I think to myself, and he staggers away from me, smacking into the refrigerator. I expect him to leave, but he fixes a determined look on his face and grabs the handle.

 

His jaw clenches as if he’s fighting it or trying to destroy it with the grinding of his teeth. He looks back at me, his eyes wet and full of Strange Things.

 

My heart stops. “No—”

 

McCoy’s too stubborn for the likes of me, I discover. He swings the gate wide open, and like a Robot Peeker, enters my world.

 

My words die in my throat. I can’t warn him that there is no escape route.

 

His shoulders stiffen. He takes a look—a long, patient look—and slams the door shut.

 

When he turns around and faces me, he’s not the neighbor I met, or the one who walked with me by the trees.

 

He’s the doctor. He’s the man who came to find me during the Cleansing.

 

I shrivel beneath his gaze. I see it in his eyes. He thinks less of me. He must.

 

Why does it bother me so much?

 

“May I at least have my yellow slippers?” I whisper.

 

“Your slippers….?”

 

“Before you Take me.” I’ve seen it happen before. Robot Peekers, stealing my neighbors before the Cure, never to return.

 

“Before I—“ His face pales. He’s obviously been instructed in the terminology I use. “I’m not _Taking_ you anywhere.”

 

“My slippers.” I try not to beg. “Please?”

 

He swallows, his Adam’s Apple bobbing up and down as he watches me. “Yes, Jim. YES.”

 

My heart whispers, reminding me that I could catch that vulnerable nodule with my bare hands if I wanted to, destroying it, but I ignore the shadows.

 

Instead, I watch it in adoration. This proof that McCoy is a living thing fascinates me. One of his hands find mine—I want to keep it with me but he guides me to the table to sit—and stands there with his hands hanging down at his sides.

 

“Oh, Jim. What am I going to do with you?” McCoy whispers.

 

I hold my breath and stare longingly the pulse of his neck like I’d watch the comets with Sam—

 

But his words bother me more than my thoughts. I smash my hand into the potatoes, growling at the Strange Things in my eyes I don’t like, that leak onto my food.

 

His hands are on my shoulders, pulling me back from my distress. He massages them. I calm down against my will.

 

_I calm down._

 

I don’t know what will happen next, until he goes back to the refrigerator. He opens the door for a second time, never even hesitating, and reaches in. He finds it quickly, past Girl’s Problem, and My Problems, to the small package of food, the raw meat from the grocery store that even he would eat once cooked—

 

—and makes me six, long tantalizing strips of bacon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews feed my muse! :) I’ll update again in two days.


	6. 1.6 Seek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to upload this a few hours early. Enjoy!

  
1.6  
SEEK

 

I’m gone all day. Girl will never return, but I have to look for that damn dog, for her sake.

 

They have told me about this menacing feeling before. _Compassion_.

 

I’m terrified that my Training seems to be disintegrating. I can’t shake away the feeling and walk until the bottoms of my feet burn and my throat is parched, which is better than feeling like a Failure.

 

The Hospital provides benches for us in Eden. They’re scattered everywhere and supplied with water, but Robot Peekers are stationed there, too. I can’t sit down because they’ll find out if I’m reverting. Or that I think I am, which may be worse.

 

And once they report back, McCoy will know.

 

I’m sweating but I walk until I reach the store. I can always force myself to do more than what I think I can. We’re trained to go beyond. Standing outside, I decide that I can’t wallow in loneliness, now that both Girl and Girl’s Problem are gone, and plan a menu, quickly, in my head. We are allowed to entertain, although there are few guests to invite.

 

I’ll invite McCoy to dinner, of course. I’ll make thick, juicy pulled pork to top crunchy, toasted buns. I’ll make a tray of veggies—I prefer the snap when you eat them. I’ll warm a dish of apple crisp—they have some premade in the baked goods section—since it sounds like something the doctor would like. I’ll buy chips. And maybe beer.

 

They don’t permit us to have beer too often, but maybe they’ll let me check it out today. A reward for helping Girl.

 

Satisfied I will not be penalized, I sip water from a bottle I grab from one of the end caps, ignoring the automatic warning that alerts the store. And even if I’m punished for it, I’m feeling too dehydrated to care.

 

I pause at the aisle displaying the snacks Girl usually wanted me to stash at my place, things Galyn never let her eat. I think about putting several of the items in the cart in her memory but I shouldn’t add to the amount I can comfortably carry. I don’t want to be too tired to host McCoy.

Once my cart is full with the necessary dinner items, I head for the register.

 

I notice I’m being followed. I should have noticed them sooner, but a headache pulses between my eyes.

 

Instead of walking faster, I wait for my visitors to catch up.

 

“Man #27 and Man #13,” I say first, my gaze sliding back and forth between them.

 

They look similar to me. Blonde hair and blue eyes, wearing the same clothes that are issued after a Cleansing. But a layer of sweat covers their bodies, dark circles blossoming under their red-rimmed eyes. They haven’t had a Cleansing for some time. This makes them on edge and primed to attack. It’s a natural part of Training.

 

But it doesn’t bode well for me.

 

“Man #4,” they sneer at the same time.

 

They resent me and my number—I arrived in Eden after they did. Two years, in fact, but have moved ahead accordingly to my actions and skills. Fairly. But they don’t see it that way.

 

“Missing something?” Man #27 asks, creeping forward to my side.

 

My entire jaw tenses, but I have at least one advantage. I’m taller. Men hate that, at least these Men do. I stare down at him over my nose. “No, why do you ask?”

 

“You look like you lost your best friend,” he says, trying to look taller with his words.

 

I say nothing, because it’s obvious they already know about Girl and Girl’s Problem.

 

Man #13 approaches. He looks angry like Finnegan had—I think he even knew him once—but the Robot Peekers snuck into my house after Finnegan destroyed my door. They pinned me down and Adjusted me.

 

I hated it—I remember screaming. The burn of the beam along my scalp. The rage I felt when they let me go. Finding Men #34-#39. Then other numbers. With an uncontrollable, hair-raising vengeance.

 

The Cleansing which followed did not work well, and it was attempted every day for seven days until I was given a Full Submersion. When I was removed, and stretched out securely, I was too weak to speak and didn’t return home for another week.

 

I think this is why they never let anyone live near me but Girl and Girl’s Problem, who were not Men.

 

But they allowed McCoy residence nearby. He must be Different. This Difference disconcerts me—it indicates I’m somehow limited in my actions. I’m vulnerable. Devastatingly so.

 

And it also means if Girl’s Problem had attacked me, out of all of us who are Trained, only Girl could have stopped her.

 

But Girl had stopped her. Had it been for herself, as I’d first thought? Or had she ended the Problem—for me?

 

I suddenly feel sick. “Let me pass.”

 

“I don’t think so,” Man #13 says, blocking my way to the aisle.

 

I clench my teeth. “Move.”

 

“Just try,” the other spits out.

 

“Maybe I will. You’re stupid enough to make it easy for me,” I say. And it’s true—I see now that they’re late for the Cleansing, which inhibits their mental capabilities.

 

This could work in my favor, although it would Ruin my schedule. Caretakers don’t like that too much, and unless Nurse is there, I’d pay for it.

 

Man #13’s cheeks flush with anger. “No wonder Finnegan never liked you.”

 

“That’s enough, boys. It’s time to move on,” a deep, drawling voice says from behind them.

 

I look up and meet McCoy’s eyes. The doctor stands, feet apart and knees bent, nearly a fighting stance, his hands flexing into a fist.

 

Man #13 blinks and relaxes his shoulders, a natural, trained reaction to Authority.

 

I find myself doing the same thing, and cringe.

 

“Yes, Caretaker,” Man #13 says.

 

“Man #27?” McCoy asks, narrowing his eyes on him.

 

“Yes, Caretaker,” Man #27 mumbles in monotone.

 

McCoy takes his Programmer from his pocket and flips it open, preparing to neutralize their mind. They both tense, as do I.

 

“No—please—“ Man #13 says in a shaking voice.

 

I don’t blame him for it—this is a demerit. A mark on their record since a Caretaker caught them trying to intimidate me, one of the Ten. They’ll lose numbers.

 

“Remain calm,” McCoy says, ignoring their distress.

 

They cannot refuse him—but neither can I. I’m rooted to the floor, waiting the Caregiver’s instructions, a Compulsion.

 

McCoy remembers just in time. “Jim,” he says, jerking his head for me to move.

 

The Men are too afraid to notice he’d used my name. I step out of their way.

 

I avert my gaze, but I imagine their faces freezing into place at the strobe of light, their pupils enlarging and remaining that way. They’ll be frozen to their fears for the rest of the day. A lesson.

 

I school my features, remembering there are eyes everywhere. Even here, cataloguing my reaction.

 

McCoy scowls. “I hate using that thing.” He looks at me and my cart. “You done lollygagging, I hope?”

 

I stare at the Programmer in his hand, my wariness of it growing with each passing second. I know my mask will eventually slip, but I’ve never seen a Caretaker use one of those up close. Only in my training sessions.

 

“Jim?”

 

The Programmer is Power—but it is also Pain.

 

“Ah,” he says softly. “I see the problem.”

 

He closes the Hateful Thing and slips it into his pocket.

 

It makes a bulge there. I can’t move since I knows it’s still in his possession, but I don’t know if it’s my own decision—or another Compulsion. I forgot that he’d have one. He could do that to anyone—to me—at any given moment.

 

I’d give anything—anything—to be like him. A Caretaker. Holding that power in my hand.

 

I swallow the lump in my throat. I hope the Peekers don’t find out that I’m Degenerating. It will mean trouble for me. It has taken Them and me a long time to come to this point, so I’ve been told. Resources had been used to train me. Irreplaceable ones. I would rather be Taken, than to be Wasted or Degenerated.

 

He comes over to my side. He smells clean, the scent tingling my nose. “They’ll be here soon to get the boys. I think we should go, so you aren’t traumatized by it.”

 

I blink. This is right, I think, and nod my consent.

 

“It’s a good thing I came to find you,” he says, pushing the cart ahead. He looks back until I follow him.

 

“They wanted to fight,” I say, blushing after I realize I stated the obvious.

 

He smiles. A golden glow surrounds him that somehow curls around me, too. As if it were meant for me, and only me, I bask in it.

 

“I mean here, in Eden,” he says, his shoulders brushing up against mine as we walk, sparking something between us. I see him fight it, the flash of emotion in his eyes, but then they bend to their usual warmth. “I tried to find you for a very long time, Jim.”

 

I don’t ask from where. I’m not sure I want to know.

 

We leave the store, and I get in his car, after he puts the Programmer in his trunk. Once I relax, I ask him over to dinner later. He agrees because he’s not sure if the men will go to the Cleansing yet or not. If they will be back.

 

Once I’m home, and by myself in the kitchen, cooking, I still don’t understand what he meant by finding me. I forget about Snoops, and Girl, and Girl’s Problem. I want to solve this other mystery, instead.

 

Maybe “finding me” indicates that I’ve been his since the beginning.

 

I add the pork to the buns once they’re warm, and smile to myself. It makes much more sense to me now. I Belong. I Belong—to him.

 

Some of us have Keepers. Keepers to place us under care, to demand better Training. He must be mine. I’m his. His to help Train, Correct, Take—

 

My heart squeezes itself, and I lose my grip on the plate I’m holding.

 

The clatter brings McCoy into the kitchen. “Good thing that was just the veggies, huh?”

 

I stare at the mess. At him.

 

“You know I can’t clean it up,” he says quietly, eyes apologetic.

 

The Peekers are here, listening.

 

I nod. I don’t say much about it, because—what am I supposed to say?

 

I feel awkward again, like before, when he was in my kitchen.

 

“Oh, hell,” he mutters, running his hands through his hair.

 

Unnerved by his frustration, I’m about to kneel on the floor to clean it up when he takes the plate of sandwiches from the counter and sits on the floor.

 

In the mess. Looking up at me.

 

I sit down beside him without question. He leans over and with a screwed up face, grabs the door to the fridge. “Beer in here?”

 

I think of Girl’s Problem and the other Problems cooling on my shelves, collected over time, and of him, sitting here by the vegetables I dropped.

 

“I’ll get it,” I say. He is my guest, after all.

 

He lets go of the door, expression overcome with relief. “Thank God. You got a real Problem in there, kiddo.”

 

McCoy picks a celery stick off of the floor. He bites down on it with a crunch, looking at me with a straight-face.

 

Smiling, and hardly knowing why, I take two cold beers out from the fridge and hand him one. We are quiet, like before, allowing me to think while we eat and drink.

 

I could tell Them about this Keeper’s Compassion. If I did—I’d be First Man quicker than I’d planned.

 

He swallows his beer, watching me through his lashes. “They said you can have one.”

 

I grip the bottle, grateful for it. “They don’t want us to get drunk.”

 

“One sip.”

 

I blink.

 

He nods. “I know—it’s a shitty rule. One I don’t give a damn about.” He pauses, leaning forward, placing his hand on my knee, whispering so the Peekers can’t hear. “They also don’t want you to eat until you’re full, or have a warm blanket at night.”

 

I shrug. I’m used to these things.

 

“I realize I’m breaking a lot of rules here, Jim,” he murmurs. “I’m depending on you to be quiet.”

 

I meet his gaze.

 

_He knows._

 

“I want the Cure,” I say vehemently.

 

It’s a confession, of all that I would do to get there.

 

His face pales, telling me he understands, but he leans into my space, closing the distance between us.

 

His mouth nears mine, but he teases me with his slight smile, the eyes that melt my insides with kindness. I don’t remember feeling this way about anyone before.

 

“What was that?” he asks.

 

I can’t breathe. It’s a demand to be still until I reply. It’s an order to answer him even though I’ve already been honest with him. It’s a test to show Them that he knows he’s my Keeper, and I’m still in need of Training.

 

It’s also a ploy.

 

“To be Cured.” My voice is hollow, belying the emotion that is trapped inside of my chest but fighting its way out when he’s near. “That’s all I want.”

 

_To win._

 

Staring down at my lips, he murmurs. “And you’d do anything, I reckon, to meet this goal.”

 

I smell the alcohol on his breath. Licking my lips, I nod.

 

His eyes dance across my face, my neck, my hands, until I’m swept away by the fervor of his gaze. “What if I told you I can help you reach your goal?”

 

His hand slides up my leg, stopping at my thigh. His finger taps once, then twice, then three times.

 

He withdraws his hand, but the warmth of his touch lingers. My heart cracks in my chest, the voids that loneliness made now open for the taking.

 

I somehow find my voice again. “I will never forget my Training.”

 

His dark stare widens the distance between us, space that I’d forgotten. “Good,” he says. “Because God forbid that you do.”

 

He’s either mocking me—or the system I can’t escape.

 

While we eat the floor clean, I decide it’s the latter and like him even more for it.

 

Because I have a secret. No one here has had the guts to break the rules—except for me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are always appreciated and welcome. :) Thank you for reading!


	7. 1.7 Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve never quite written something like this chapter before, and I hope you can see the purpose behind it, which is to reveal the state of Jim’s mind, how it’s been stripped, so to speak. Anyway, I’m honestly a little nervous about this one, just b/c I don’t want it to be misunderstood. 
> 
> I’m really enjoying posting daily, but have a few other fics to work on this weekend. I’ll try to keep it at least every other day—when I post shorter chapters like these it’s much easier for me to keep a regular schedule. And addicting, too. ;)
> 
> Happy reading—at poor Jim’s expense.

  
1.7  
REMEMBER

 

 

 

The Peekers invaded my home as I dreamt of McCoy and his hands and my part Working again, like it had in the Cleansing.

 

But when I awaken, I discover that They’d _invaded me_ during the night and fixed my Input. For the first time since I’ve arrived, I’m angry.

 

I am not a drone, or a computer, but they manage to insert Changes into my brain, nonetheless. Usually dates, or times of Training, or Compulsions suited for Training. I hope nothing else. But I’m never sure, never aware, and I don’t know how to handle it this morning.

 

I’ve never not known what to do, and now...I must admit defeat.

 

Yet there’s nothing I can do. It is Training and I must pursue Training to survive.

 

I know I’ve been invaded when I’m still cuffed to the bed, as if I’d fought them as I slept. The gash on my forehead has reopened and I know, immediately, that this is what happened.

 

I’m strangely satisfied by it, the metallic taste in my mouth, the blood I lick off my lips. I smirk as I take the cuffs off one hand with my teeth, then the other, and slip out of bed unencumbered. Blood drips down my cheek. I’m tempted to leave it there, because I feel bored and aloof, but I lick my lips again, my programming to be clean that makes me do so. I stagger, however, in my escape, and am forced to hold onto the wall to stay upright. Yet, this is nothing to me. Injury is common and necessary to become First Man. If I lose my ability to fight back, I will be considered weak by all.

 

I wish I could write what they do to me each time they Alter me, but they’ve provided me with nothing with which to write—no pen or pencil, book, or tablet. But I can’t recall how to form letters now, only read them, even if these implements were here at my disposal.

 

I may know many things, but how to communicate like a Human is not one of them.

 

The new Input is not unexpected. I’d known it was coming. Today I shall either die or move ahead to be known as Man #3.

 

They don’t tell me when or how this will occur, but I must be ready.

 

I move carefully to the living room window that lets me see into McCoy’s bedroom, and lift up one blind. His curtains are open and through another door, perhaps the bathroom, I see him by his sink, shaving.

 

McCoy is smart, but in this he is stupid.

 

I scowl at his stupidity—Morons, Nurse would say—but I watch him through the narrow crack of my blinds with a guilty—or guiltless—pleasure. I shouldn’t be this careless, either, but his chest is bare. His skin is perfect in its raw form, revealing hair as dark as what’s on his head and a ripple of muscle I had not expected. I rue the black slacks he wears, imagining them off, to complete the line of hair I see running down the center of his abdomen.

 

He’s gorgeous. I know this—my brain fires the signal to my heart over and over again until I’m forced to close my blinds, and look away from him, my neck heating uncomfortably. I could succumb to my new obsession, but my stomach knots, and then I’m Working again—it is a strange, cursed feeling. I’m leaking, I think—

 

A whirring sounds from the doorway—

 

_The Robots._

 

“Shit,” I whisper to the lonely air around me.

 

I shake myself from my Obsession, and walk, awkwardly, towards my own bathroom, mindful of my shifting, Working part. Mindful once more of the Peekers.

 

They’re still here, but I should have time to secretly recalibrate them later. I’ve managed to do so once before, successfully. Besides, I’m too far gone to stop now. McCoy’s life bleeds into my heart like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.

 

It’s instinctual, this need for friction. My hand finds my Working part, as does the blood in my body. I grip it, tightly, then gently—always experimentally—until I move my hand up and down in what seems to be an ancient rhythm.

 

Closing my eyes, I sag against the wall, legs shaking. It feels good to me. Really good. Maybe the best thing I’ve experienced physically, that I can remember. My mind wanders, drifting as I touch myself, and I lose all coherent thought but this—only this—and the doctor I cannot have.

 

I feel full, keen desperation—and as I move my hand in a frantic motion over my Working part—up and down and again until—until—I’m wrought by a sudden, blinding ecstasy. Power washes over me. _Power escapes me_. Gasping for breath, I cry out the doctor’s name, my vision whitening out, my Working part spilling out, McCoy’s warm smile weightless in my mind.

 

I’m finished but my breath is rough and heavy, my body limp like a rag the Caretakers’ use on me, my mind empty. My knees weaken, and I slide, naked, to the floor, into the mess that I have made.

 

I shake out several, ragged breaths.

 

“Alert! Disallowed! Alert!”

 

Scowling, I look up at the Annoyances in the doorway—the Robots are still watching, waiting, and calculating every move I make.

 

I glare at them. Although they are not friends, they warn me with their odd, ear-curling whistles. This—what I’m doing—what I did—is not permitted. I should have known. But it is strange to me and my body—I did not know it could do what it did.

 

I look down at my lap, awestruck. Does McCoy’s work the same way? I’m suddenly fascinated by the possibility but, at the same time, embarrassed, that I’m thinking such a thing.

 

I shiver, deciding I need to touch McCoy instead of doing this alone—or him, me—and soon—and not just in my dreams, but a Human touch. But it’s possible he’s the only Human between the two of us. How can I be after all I’ve done?

 

I must get closer to him, like before, and without Peekers around, if not to let him know what I yearn for, then for myself. I’m a selfish Man who gets what he wants.

 

I am #4, after all. Only three more Men stand in my way.

 

The Robots are stupider than McCoy, at least.

 

I clean my body in halting movements and not well at all—I hardly remember how to use the soap. It’s odd and possibly a result of the Input. I dress, but my mind is in the clouds and not on what it should be—Survival.

 

Before I leave to Train, I recalibrate the Peekers and wipe my fingerprints from their sorry, cold Forms, giving them each a hateful, hard kick as I go out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I’d love to hear from you!
> 
> If you have questions about the story, please ask them. The worst I can do is give an ambiguous answer. :) I do want to note that this is after post-Into Darkness but doesn’t necessarily have to do with that film. I just added that tag to place this story in the timeline for you. Also, McCoy’s POV will begin in Ch. 11, but his supplemental entries will cover the first ten chapters. It won’t take ten chapters to do that—I’m shooting for three to five. Then, we’ll return to Jim’s POV.


	8. 1.8 Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is what you know—Jim is climbing the ranks in Eden, either by killing or incapacitating his competition. He is now #4...and Inputs alert him as to when he is to Train. There are Compulsions. When Jim and the others get too aggressive, or usually after they’ve Trained, they are “Cleansed.” There are Caretakers, so whoever has them here are not “animals.” Not completely—or they could just love to mess with other people. I can’t say one way or another at this point. Jim is also limited in his vocabulary and puts very different emphasis on certain words—because they are his life and how he survives. They indicate how much significance the word has in his life. He’s also still rebellious, obviously, and perhaps this means some subconscious part of the old Jim is in charge of what he’s doing.
> 
> Vana_Valie has pointed out something very important and I thought I’d share it with the rest of you—I was hoping someone would pick up on it and now that she has, I feel a sense of relief. LOL. I was beginning to doubt these little clues I put in here for you all, as well as my own ability to tell this story. Anyway, she asked if the nurse is Nyota. Yes, indeed, she is! So, you know that McCoy and Nyota are here, but you don’t know for how long. Nyota, probably the longest, which means that the Enterprise has probably known Jim was here for some time, but they had to wait…but why? Why are they being so cautious? You also know that there are rules McCoy has to follow, so maybe his own actions here dictate his ability to be around Jim.
> 
> Yesterday I realized...and this was pure coincidence, which blows my mind...that Eden is an anagram (minus a letter and #, at this point) for those who bear some responsibility for all of this. I didn’t intend for that to be the case!
> 
> These are just some thoughts I’ve gathered for you. Not that they will help you figure out exactly what happened, but to fit this information I’m feeding you in each chapter within a broader context.

  
1.8  
GIFT

 

I meet Man #3 at the lake, the Compulsion leading me there for Training.

 

Man #3 is not a man, this time, nor is it the first time I’ve faced an Alien. He’s Vulcan and at least three times my human age, his hair gray, not black, with a discolored patches of skin along the right side of his face, that I can see, until they slip unnoticed under his traditional brown robe.

 

They’ve adjusted the environment for his sake, I think, swallowing hard, although I have hardly any saliva to swallow. The temperature has been raised—I’m sweating, but I wipe my forehead clean with one sweep of my arm. I’ll adjust to it—I always do.

 

The other Man, #5, also perspires, but to an even greater degree. His shirt is soaked, his neck dripping with sweat. He sits down in the grass and lays on his back, with no more than a passing glance at us.

 

I wrinkle my brow, and wait, keeping my eye on our surroundings. No one says anything, or moves to kill the other. I wonder if this is our test. This waiting, without Compulsion. If none of us are Compelled to fight, the fight must come from an outside source. From Them.

 

I soon discover I’m wrong.

 

The Vulcan stares down at Man #5. “You have been affected.”

 

My ears perk up. I look at him, the Vulcan whose mouth is stern, and eyes hard as flint. “What do you mean?” I ask.

 

“Look at him,” the Vulcan says, gaze on #5.

 

Man #5 writhes on the ground, hands on his Working part through his pants, moaning, pathetically. Soon, he screams with his face planted into the grass.

 

I don’t know what to do. Do I help him? Or kill him in his weakness?

 

I’m too curious to end this, and remain silent and still.

 

“A defect,” the Vulcan clarifies after another moment.

 

“Oh,” I say, blinking rapidly.

 

 _Defect_?

 

A syringe, still half-full, falls from Man #5’s pocket as he miserably crawls on the grass.

 

A Compulsion to ruin oneself, I think quietly.

 

Man #5 stares longingly at me, the crystalline of his eyes pure and clear and intense. They bore into my skin, making me bleed desire, and do not like it, but he, like McCoy, is easy on the eyes. I am affected by this, whether I want to be or not.

 

I step back and look away, to ward off the stirring beginning between my legs. I don’t know how I would fight—or fight well—if Defected like #5.

 

The Vulcan’s lip curls into a snarl. “This is our Training, it seems.”

 

“And you?” I ask, my pulse beginning to race.

 

The Vulcan sneers. “It takes more than that for my body to react.” He pauses, his eyes flicking over me with distaste. “You are fighting it.”

 

I hesitate. I know I can ignore this new Task my body is experiencing, but perhaps I can use my supposed weakness as an advantage.

 

The Vulcan’s lips do something strange and curve upward now.

 

I’m sure he’s laughing at me. “How would you know?”

 

“Human, you will be Taken if you’re Defected, like him. It appears as if you need no medicine to make this happen to you.

 

He tries to shame me, but I shrug with confidence. What would it hurt to be truthful? “It will pass.”

 

“You cannot ignore a Defect. Especially a natural one.”

 

Clearly, I can, as I square my shoulders, determined to face my opponent without disability. “We are to begin,” I say confidently, and assume a fighting stance unhindered by Defect.

 

I will never allow a Defect to come between me and survival, and vow never to mention my discovery to McCoy, even though he is my Doctor and it seems like I’d inform him of such things.

 

The Vulcan charges me without precedent. He’s faster than I remember Vulcans being, although I don’t know how I know this.

 

He barrels into me, forcing me to the ground. I meet the earth, accepting my Fate, no match for his strength.

 

But I’m quick-witted enough to jab him in his side with my elbow, and roll towards Man #5 unencumbered, grabbing the discarded, half-full syringe before I rise.

 

____________

 

 

There is no blood when I am finished, no satisfaction in my new number, 3, that I’ve also rid myself of more competition in Man #5, until I decide what to do with them.

 

I can’t communicate with words, either because I don’t know how to write, or the Peekers which follow me, but I can show McCoy I appreciate his ability to converse so easily with me.

 

I make two trips in the night, after McCoy has gone to bed. When I’m done, I’ve placed the bodies of the Vulcan and the Defected Man on the doctor’s front porch, their necks twisted oddly where I’ve broken them.

 

Wiping my hands of them, I slip back into my house. I feel unclean, although I’ve only done what I could to survive. I stare at the shower curtain in my bathroom, wanting to stand under the water, but not knowing how to rid my body of the filth I’ve accumulated. I wish I wore blood, not sweat and hatred and the image of their Tortured faces. I did not touch them except to kill, but something was inhuman in the Compulsions we were forced to feel, and it has Defected me, but in a different way.

 

My thoughts race until I am frantic and scrub at my skin, scraping my fingernails, making more lines such as McCoy had seen. It doesn’t work. I then try to remove my clothing, but the Peekers blare their warnings, and the Compulsion pricks my thoughts, and I stop guiltily, like a child reprimanded.

 

I crawl onto my bed with a choking sob, and more weariness than I’ve ever felt after Training.

 

And an emotional and mental exhaustion that I now fear getting the best of me.

 

The only respite from my tortured thoughts is the token of friendship I’ve laid at McCoy’s front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you comment—you’re directly feeding the muse and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for that! 
> 
> I’ll post the next chapter Monday/Tuesday. I need a little more time to work ahead. ;0


	9. 1.9 Fantasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve really appreciated your feedback for this fic—thank you for hanging in there for this crazy ride! Also, I’d like to extend my deepest gratitude to diamondblue4 and junker5 for their second and third pairs of eyes. Hugs!
> 
> I’m six chapters ahead, so I decided to update a little earlier than planned. Enjoy!

  
1.9  
FANTASY

 

I wake up, having an idea who Man #2 is. I think I’ve seen him before—sitting on the front steps of his home, carving—when Girl’s Problem and I ran through the neighborhood at full speed several weeks ago. He ignored me, which is the highest Compulsion when you are of high rank. It helps set our minds ahead, or so I’ve been told by the Caretakers.

 

Girl’s Problem never liked him, or the tattoos that he had along his arms and forehead. I could tell by the look of distaste she’d given him, the bite of her words to me when she didn’t want to talk. It was as if the Romulan had personally harmed her, or done something to offend her, which never made sense.

 

I, like everyone else on this planet, haven’t met anyone before. We’re also trained to rid our minds of Xenophobia. It’s clear that Girl’s Problem had not been successful in this task. Why the Caretakers have never made it a Compulsion—I can only speculate.

 

Although I never liked the way she treated Girl, I got along with Girl’s Problem, and she with me. We never Trained together like I train with anyone else. Only ran. I have a suspicion as to why now, and rue that I never got a chance to prove my theory before Girl solved her Problem.

 

I’d been honest with McCoy, before. It is boring here. If I could test my theory—it would at least have given me something to do to amuse myself. I do not take easily to boredom.

 

I’m tired of waiting for McCoy to come outside and find what I left him on the porch. My house is clean, relatively. I’m hungry but they won’t let us eat more today. I don’t care to watch anything they provide us on the TV, which is the same thing, over and over, so I head for the Training store.

 

Robot Peekers accompany me, their wheels churning as fast as I sprint down the street, eager to feel the power of my breath surging through my body.

 

They must sense danger if they come with me, as I’d be on my own any other day. But I’m #3 now—there will be more Men who crave my rank, more Competitors who want my place. I don’t resent the Peekers today and accept my lot in life with humility.

 

The Peekers scoot in closer to me as I arrive at the Training store. I reach for the door. But the Peeker on my left stuns me with one prick of a metal finger.

 

It locks my body, like an unrelenting, pressing ache in my muscles.

 

The Peeker’s silver ears whirl. “Alert.”

 

My heart is bound tightly in my throat. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

 

A dark figure approaches the glass from inside the door. He looks at me. Narrows his eyes. Smiles. Even though he knows I have no breath.

 

My face tingles all over, as I remember him.

 

_No Name._

 

“Oh,” No Name says, his voice sounding from the speakers outside.

 

My face has grown too warm. I won’t be able to hold my breath within this energy field much longer. 

 

“It’s just you,” he goes on to say. “I’m sorry for the precaution, but Men have been especially difficult as of late.”

 

He nods at the Peeker, who stuns me again, this time loosening the energy field that had entrapped me.

 

Inhaling a deep breath, I sag into the Peeker behind me, who catches me and prods me into the building.

 

I stumble inside, catching myself on No Name’s shoulder.

 

He narrows his eyes on my hand. I back away.

 

“I am sorry, No Name,” I say.

 

He is quiet, then laughs, the sound filling the small store. “I love how they’ve Trained you—especially you—into an Imbecile.”

 

I don’t know what an Imbecile is, but I nod.

 

He motions for me to follow him. “You haven’t been here in awhile.”

 

“I’ve been Training,” I say, although it’s a poor excuse.

 

“Many others find their way to the Training store,” he murmurs.

 

The unspoken question weighs between us—Why haven’t you?

 

I begin to second guess myself. My face heats.

 

“No worries, Mr. Kirk. You’re here now.” He smiles a little, beckons me to the counter and pulls out a black box. “You’ve made great progress, although we’ve always known it would come to this someday.”

 

I stare at the box, curious. “This?”

 

“Here.”

 

He opens the box. Inside is a black shirt and black pants to match.

 

“For...me?” I dare to touch the clothing, without waiting for his answer.

 

He leans forward, grinning widely. “Who else would look as magnificent in this Training uniform but you?”

 

His words—his eyes—make me uncomfortable. I straighten my back, if not to ease myself away from his proximity as much as I can without making it obvious.

 

“I—I don’t know?” I say haltingly. Surely someone else would— “Someone—maybe Man #2 or Mc—”

 

I bite my tongue—I don’t know what I’m thinking—or saying to him—or why.

 

“I’m teasing.” He waves my hand away from the box.

 

I pull it back, face warming once more. I am always unsettled when I am with him.

 

I suddenly yearn for McCoy’s presence.

 

He closes the box, the rings on his fingers glittering dangerously. “But not about this. It is yours.”

 

He holds it out to me.

 

I wonder if I should carry it home, even with the Peekers. I am Man #3, now, and a Target at all times.

 

I can’t take it into my possession and shake my head.

 

His brows raise. “Ah, I know what the problem is.”

 

I frown, not understanding.

 

He rolls his eyes. “Not that kind of Problem. A different problem. Here.” He hands me an object of use.

 

I take it before realizing what it is, and when I do—my chest fills with dread. I drop it on top of the box, saying, “It’s a Programmer!’

 

“Imbeciles, the lot of you,” he mutters, glaring at me. He pockets it and says, “That was your one chance, Mr. Kirk, and you blew it.”

 

My heart pounding, I slowly realize what I’d done. I glance down at the box, confused. Should I ask for it back? Do I leave the Training outfit here?

 

I can’t believe I’d failed what could be an important Task.

 

“I’ll give you once more chance.”

 

I glance up at him, thinking I misheard.

 

He takes the Programmer out and gives it to me. “Your Robots will take it from you when you get home. There is power in it, yes?”

 

I weigh it in my hand, imagining the first person I’d use it on—

 

Myself. But as a Test of my own.

 

“You can keep it if you want to do that,” he whispers to me, stirring the desire I have to inflict pain upon my own person.

 

I need to know how to control myself, I tell myself, that is all—and pocket it without a word.

 

“Have a good day,” he calls out cheerily as I leave.

 

I float on air that I have something so powerful in my possession and hardly know where I’m walking—until my new neighbor rudely yells at me, interrupting my thoughts of Power and Control.

 

“Mr. Kirk,” McCoy says, bounding off his front steps.

 

His infuriated eyes fight for space in my mind, their emotion pushing aside thoughts of the Programmer. I succumb to the Delight that his presence brings and slide my box under my right arm. “Yes?”

 

McCoy stands in my personal space, pointing at my chest. “I think we need to have a little chat.”

 

“About?”

 

“The appropriate presents you should leave your neighbors,” he spits out.

 

I look at his porch. They’re still there. “Oh. That.” I smile. “You like them?”

 

“Do I like them?” he repeats incredulously. “Are you crazy?”

 

I open my mouth to answer, of course not—

 

“Of course you are,” he says before I have a chance. He places his hands on his hips. “Why else would you give me TWO DEAD MEN?”

 

“One was an alien,” I patiently say.

 

“I don’t give a damn if one was an alien. I’d like you to dispose of them, wherever you take your, uh, Problems.”

 

I’ll have to get another refrigerator, but it isn’t a big deal. Perhaps No Name can find one for me. “Okay.”

 

He blinks. “Wait,” he says. “Not there. I won’t be able to eat at your house...knowing they were here and now they’re...they’re...dammit, Jim!”

 

I look at him. I have no room. “Yours?”

 

“Dammit, Jim,” he says, running a hand over his face. “We can’t bury them?”

 

I think of the Things that find them in the ground, and that McCoy should know this, and shake my head.

 

McCoy pales. “Okay. Fine, then. We’ll put them in mine. I’ll be eating with you at your house, anyway, to make sure you get the calories you need. You’re wasting, away, kiddo.”

 

He almost refuses to take the Vulcan inside his house by the heels, but when I say it’s better than touching his cold hands, he moves to the opposite end of the Alien without another word.

 

We carry the first body inside. McCoy struggles with this simple act, his eyes averted from the Vulcan. I don’t know why. He’s no longer a Problem. Because of his awkwardness, we hit the wall, and I almost drop him, but I hold on, even when the Vulcan’s hands nearly freeze my own.

 

We deposit him on the kitchen floor. McCoy stumbles back, looking so green, just like the corpse, that I merely wipe my hands on my pants to warm them. “Here,” I say, and help him sit on one of his chairs.

 

I look for knives and find them. I hold two up, one in each hand. “These are too dull.”

 

He stares at me, the knives, the Vulcan, not understanding.

 

I grow impatient. The Programmer is a dangerous weapon and I need to find a hiding place for it as soon as possible. McCoy is delaying my Task. “What do you think I need to do in order to fit him inside?”

 

I point to his fridge with a blade, exasperated, and tell him that for being a doctor, his common sense concerning these areas is quite limiting and a liability to me. That I have to cut them apart to make sure they don’t come alive again.

 

I say that last part to shock him. It isn’t true. Not all of it, anyway.

 

He withers, sliding out of the chair like he’s drunk, exclaiming. “Oh, my god, Jim, I can’t believe—”

 

And promptly faints to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter with Jim, and then we start McCoy’s POV for awhile. :) Please, review?


	10. 1.10 Word

  
1.10  
WORD

 

 

By the time, McCoy awakens, I’ve unassembled both Robot Peekers and recalibrated them, altering the computer system running them to think that they ran into a separate, technical problem rather than Hands—human or otherwise—taking them apart. I don’t understand every symbol, but the numbers make sense to me. I go by instinct.

 

I’m grateful McCoy’s “nap” took just thirty-two minutes, although that he was out that long reveals a great deal about the doctor’s physical state. And it makes me think, maybe for the first time, that he isn’t used to the things that happen here. That he truly is here for—me.

 

I’m curious, now, where he came, but I have other pressing matters at hand that need my attention.

 

“You need to sleep more,” I tell him, when he looks at me, the sleep not quite gone from his eyes. “You’re not getting enough.”

 

“Pot scolding the kettle, don’t ya think?” His throat scratches over each word, like a cat’s rough purr.

 

Rather than tell him I don’t understand the analogy, and reveal more of my ignorance, I get up from the floor where I was Operating and stand over him. McCoy is stretched out on the couch, where I thought he’d be more comfortable.

 

And, also, where I could take cursory looks at him at my convenience.

 

He is no lightweight—I think to tease him, but I’m running out of time. The Peekers will come to life, again, soon.

 

“Would you like some tea?” I ask politely, thinking this would make up for whatever inconvenience I’ve caused him.

 

“Tea?” He groans. He sits up and wipes the sleep from his eyes. “I don’t think I can even consider having tea if you haven’t taken care of your Problems yet.”

 

“I haven’t forgotten about them,” I say, offended.

 

His eyes harden. “Where are they?”

 

I shrug.

 

“Jim.”

 

“In the kitchen.” I look at my feet, wishing I had shoes. I lift up my toes, hating the way they stick to the floor.

 

He blows out a breath, nods his head towards the Peekers. “And them?”

 

“They won’t be aware of anything for a little while. A year after I was here, I developed an untraceable program that runs simultaneously and compromises their System.”

 

His eyes fill with relief. “There’s the old Jim.”

 

I cock my head. “‘The Old Jim?’” I quote, a sense of dread nagging at my chest.

 

I don’t like it and try to leave, but when he grabs my arm, and desperation anew flashes across his face, I can’t find it within myself to pull myself from his grasp.

 

His fingers press into my flesh, but not with force, like it is with the other Caretakers, or No Name. He’s gentle, and eases his grip, smile soft. My heart flutters, like a butterfly that has just taken flight with new wings. I stare back, allowing his gaze to penetrate me with concern, his eyes filling with other unidentifiable emotions, flowing deeply from his hazel eyes.

 

I should feel uncomfortable, wary, even, but he’s addictive, like Winning is addictive, to me. His presence. His touch. His ability to make me stop. This affection he’s pouring into me like liquid into a glass—molding into me—filling me in places I didn’t know I had—and I can’t get enough.

 

“You feel him, don’t you?” He reaches up and takes my other arm, pulling me towards his chest. “Otherwise,” he says, breathing into my hair. “You wouldn’t let me do...this.”

 

My ear rests against his heart. I listen, barely breathing, as it beats swiftly, as if he’s nervous, or agitated.

 

I start to remember something.

 

A word. A name that weighs so heavily on my tongue, I can’t overcome the sadness attached to it, and it dies, hopelessly, oppressively, in my mouth.

 

I gasp a breath and bite down on his shoulder to hold back Strange Things stinging my eyes. I cling to his back as his own grip tightens.

 

“What is it?” he whispers, breath on my ear.

 

I clutch at him without dignity now, not understanding my own reaction to the memory, unable to define what it is that I’m feeling.

 

But he doesn’t press me for more. It’s as if he understands my need to feel his arms around me, a feeling, a protection I’ve lacked for all of these years.

 

Strange Things continue to torment my eyes, but I deny the sensation. I blink them back, breathing raggedly.

 

“It’s okay, Jim,” he whispers, as time passes into itself, into freedom, and lightness, and the Strange Feeling of being held like a small child. “I gotcha.”

 

_______________

 

I wish the moment could have lasted until night came again, but the Peekers would awaken soon.

 

I’m the first to pull away, although reluctantly. I ask him to stay away, so I can dispose of the Problems properly. He starts to object, but then his face pales. He nods. “Fine.”

 

I leave—and he starts to pace.

 

I calculate that he went from the front to the back of his living room two-hundred fifty-three times once I’m done. I am a mess—inhuman and human blood on my hands—but I don’t know how to do this. I’m too ashamed to ask him—

 

Somehow he knows.

 

“I’m not a stranger to blood,” he says, when I stand before him. “Especially yours. I’ll help you.”

 

I motion to the box I brought with me. His brow twitches in curiosity and he opens it. He says nothing, but then asks, in a hesitant murmur, “Where did you get this?”

 

“The Training store.”

 

“They hand out...uniforms?”

 

“It is the first I’ve seen,” I says.

 

“I’ve been in there,” he says tersely, handing the box back to me.

 

I wonder why visiting the store makes him angry, but before I can ask, he jerks his head towards his stairs. “You need to shower.”

 

I follow him, dutifully, being careful as to where I step. My feet leave prints if I stand too long in one place.

 

We climb the stairs. “In here,” he says, motioning to the first door on the left once we’re at the top. “It’s small, but I’m sure we can manage. It’s not like we have huge rooms on the Ent—”

 

He cuts off, clamping his mouth shut and staring at me with such a wild expression in his eyes, I fear his retaliation and step back.

 

“What?” I ask, although I have no idea why I want to know what he’d been trying to say.

 

“I—I can’t say,” he mumbles under his breath.

 

“Why not?”

 

He tears his eyes away from me and opens the shower curtain with one exaggerated, swipe of his hand. “Get in,” he grits out.

 

I start towards the tub—he stops me, blinking and giving me a fierce look. I wonder if he’s angry with me—or something else. It seems I can never know. Not with him.

 

“Without clothes,” he adds tightly.

 

I nod, too tense to reply. I start to strip, uncaring that he watches me, eyes narrowed, expression slightly horrified, as if my nakedness is as gruesome a sight as the Problems.

 

I don’t know what to do once I stand in the tub—and he looks—just stares at me.

 

“I’ve done something wrong,” I say.

 

He blinks, and blinks again. “No— _No_ ,” he says quickly, reaching out. I force myself to stand still, as his hand finds the washcloth beside me, and the soap. “You’re just so much leaner than I remember. All hard muscle.”

 

My heart speeds up, as when I burst into a run. “What...was I like...before?”

 

His eyes widen. “As handsome as ya are now.”

 

My shoulders drop, now relaxed. I had no idea I was so tense.

 

“And the same bit of ornery, too,” he adds.

 

I don’t know why, but that makes me smile.

 

He grins. “I’m going to turn on the water, now, okay?”

 

I jump when the water sprays on my face. He chuckles and wipes the washcloth over it. I squeeze my eyes shut, my muscles knotting, because his fingers graze my skin, his touch energizing every cell of my body.

 

I want it to go on, forever, this Washing, but we both remember the Peekers after a few minutes. He turns the water off, drapes a towel across my shoulders. This—drying off—I remember.

 

But the drain is slow, as are all the drains in the houses in Eden.

 

He looks down when we’re done, the swirl of water and blood and dirt accumulated over days finding escape, but his expression is troubled.

 

Intrigued, I step closer, tucked in next to him, wanting to know what he sees and I do not, and one word—one tiny word—slips, as if from a spark, from my mouth.

 

“Mudd.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some TOS knowledge “could” be beneficial from now on. ;) 
> 
> Please, review? ❤️ The next several chapters will be McCoy’s POV.


	11. Supplemental 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be posting six or seven chapters in McCoy’s POV next...probably one each day, but I may need to skip a day once in awhile, depending on how far ahead I can keep up. 
> 
> And just a small note—these supplemental logs will slowly feed you information to keep the suspense going. I hope you enjoy the journey. :)
> 
> This covers McCoy’s POV for Chapters 1 & 2\. (We are backtracking until we get McCoy’s POV for Chapter 10.) The entry numbers are arbitrary—no hidden clues. He’s recorded more than just these at this point—the entries in this chapter are not the first.

  
  


 The Diary of Dr. Leonard H. McCoy  
Supplemental 1

 

 

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**Entry 1.1004**

 

I’ve been vaccinated and now I wait. The effects are minimal, but I’m damn near petrified of Jim. I’ve seen what he can do. Not that I’m surprised he’s held his own, even under the influence of the medications and their programming.

 

But I can’t face him without holding this damn phaser in my hand. Literally. I can’t let go. My fingers—a result of the vaccine—or the way this place twists your mind—are curved around the trigger, primed and ready to shoot.

 

If only Spock were here, without that damn neutralizer they place in some of the aliens’ brains. If he were here, with all of his faculties, he could wrench it from my hands. I’d let him break a finger or two, if it meant meeting Jim safely.

 

My heart’s pounding out of my chest. I’ve had an entire day of my heart hammerin’ like…

 

Fuck, I see him coming. This may be the last recording I ever make here.

 

.  
.  
.

 

**Entry 1.1005**

 

Our meeting didn’t go well. Not only did he fail to recognize me, I almost shot him. I almost killed him, to be more exact.

 

I made the Impression, which is either the worst thing I could’ve done—or the best. Maybe the vaccine helped. I don’t know. I took an oath—DO NO HARM.

 

A lot of good that’s done, lately.

 

He won’t forget me, but I still have to be on my guard. He can’t know “me” yet, or who he used to be, even though I hinted to a history between us. That knowledge could jeopardize this entire mission. And what Jim has planned, if anything. I have to be more careful. Yet, I have to prod his memory, slowly. Whenever possible.

 

What the FUCK did you get yourself into, Jim?

 

.

.

.

 

**Entry 1.1006**

 

I ended my last recording angry with the man who holds more secrets than my Aunt Ellie. Who can’t help who he is here, or what, or why.

 

If Jim came here—there was a reason for it. I can’t be mad. At least, not with him and who he is now.

 

Although it appears to be the case, I refuse to believe he was captured and brought here because of Mudd.

 

Mudd wasn’t worth it. He’s not worth this—three years without our captain. Mudd never was worth the breath we wasted on him.

 

I’m convinced now, more than ever, that there is more to what happened. But I don’t know how long this operation will take. There are no rules except that there are no rules. It could take another month. Or year. God forbid another three years.

 

Nyota, when you hear this message, relay to Spock that if something happens to me, if I fuck this up, he has to come here himself, to Eden, and find the bastards that did this.

 

.  
.  
.

 

**Entry 1.0007**

 

While I was waiting around to see Jim again, I tried to find the owner of the house across the street and apologize for shooting at her house. If her kid had been home—I don’t know if I could have ever forgiven myself.

 

I’ve deduced it was the vaccine—my inability to switch the phaser to stun exacerbated by the remnants of that drug coursing through my own system. Thank God Jim had enough sense to change the setting for me. He’s used to the air here. I, clearly, am not.

 

I’ll use the oxygen mask and purifier when I sleep. At least they provided me with that.

 

.  
.  
.

 

**Entry 1.0008**

 

I just got back from trying to apologize to Jim for pointing that damn phaser at him, but it’s possible I’ve taken two steps backwards. I got too close, but I’ve missed him. It must have seem threatening to him, because he told me to leave. Not quite the feedback I wanted, but I won’t screw that up again. I have to remind myself—slow steps. He’s skittish. And can I blame him? I’m a stranger, barging into his world.

 

But he’s still Jim, and a determined, self-reliant SOB. Even though it’s obvious by the state of his sparsely decorated house, and his thin body, the troubling lines on his arms, that he’s merely surviving. And not that well. They don’t give the greatest after care here. Each “training session” takes a toll on them. I wish I could do more—but I’m the only chance we have to get Jim back.

 

I hate to say that it’s a good thing they regulate this environment and the other contenders at the hospital, but it is. Without those visits, this place would be chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, review? I’d love to hear from you! Thank you for reading!


	12. Supplemental 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This log covers Chapter 3.

 

The Diary of Dr. Leonard H. McCoy  
Supplemental 2

 

 

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.  
.

 

**Entry 1.1011**

 

I still can’t believe we’d known Jim was here for an entire year before we were permitted to set foot in the city—damn politics. Yes, we’d rescued Mudd, but he’d been a wanted criminal for years. The Denebians didn’t take lightly to this—we’d stolen their playmate.

 

I use the term, “city,” loosely. It’s unlike anything we’ve seen, in the five years that Jim was captain of the Enterprise, or the three years that Spock has. Eden is a step back into time, with an eccentric array of anomalies, as one looks through its 20th century-esque lens, its antiquated civilization. But compared to the rest of Deneb V—the planet to which Eden belongs and its depleting resources—it’s a picnic. A solace.

 

The process preparing Nyota and myself to a life here has been excruciatingly slow and precise. Proving herself adaptable to even this chaotic environment, and without the same emotional attachment I had to Jim, she was ready first. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I was emotionally compromised after learning what happened to Jim—more so after realizing all that he’s been through here—but I’m mostly worried about the aftermath. What he’ll be like when we get him home. I’m without my tricorder or anything that can give a proper reading—their atmosphere interferes with our current technology, and their technology isn’t worth the metal they’re built from. They don’t trust us. I have to play by the rules, just like the people in Eden, but Jim’s life is at stake, too.

 

Nyota has done an amazing job with Jim, who is beginning to trust her. I wish the others did, but she has little to no contact with Eden’s inhabitants, except for Jim. Even then, she’s limited in her direct caregiving to him. Other than that, her purpose here is to answer comms—and secretly feed my news to the Enterprise. She’s one cool cucumber. So far, the Denebians have no idea we’re in contact with the rest of the crew more than than we are allowed. Thank God their robots aren’t permitted to follow us.

 

When Nyota does see Jim, it’s always in a controlled environment. The air, the security—all up to Denebians regular standards, although they are obviously lower than that on the Enterprise. But beggars can’t be choosers, especially with Jim’s life on the line. We’ll do anything to get Jim back to us—even this.

 

The hospital is equipped to handle every man the Denebians allow us to treat, including Jim. I don’t know where the others go after their “Training” sessions. I’d like to find out, but the robots chase me like shadows when I leave my house. I’d rather not be interrogated by one—it ain’t pretty.

 

.  
.  
.

 

**Entry 1.1012**

 

I’m waiting for more news on Jim’s next “session”—it happened quickly, I’ve been told. Too quickly, in fact. He won’t remember what he did, but that isn’t new. It’s happened before. The rage...the air…going straight to his head. I don’t know what’s worse. That he’s killed—or that he won’t remember doing any of the killing.

 

I need to take my mind off of it until he gets to the hospital. I could tell he was getting antsy the other day, by the way he ordered me to leave.

 

I think he recognizes me, on a surface level. My presence is speeding up the process. This could be good—or bad. We’ll take it a day at a time, until he’s home. Until he’s home—with me.

 

I wish I could pass a note on to Jim, something he could hold in his hand, something that could give him comfort. But he can’t read. Jim Fucking Kirk can’t read.

 

It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that Jim—a genius—can’t even spell his own name, or speak intelligently about his surroundings. His limited vocabulary has made his interactions with other hospital staff a curiosity. I wonder what Spock thinks when he hears these transmissions. We haven’t spoken much about Jim since he went missing—or after he was found.

 

A note could spark something in his memory. I know it’s too big of a risk. But, maybe, because it’s Jim—it’s not big enough.

 

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.  
.

 

**Entry 1.1013**

 

Not much time has passed since my last log in, but now Jim is here—but I can’t see him yet. I can’t tell him that I know every inch of his body—that he hasn’t eaten enough—that he isn’t sleeping enough—that he doesn’t have to be alone—that his blood pressure is off the charts, thanks to the rising temperature in the sauna.

 

He needs to be treated on the Enterprise, where he belongs.

 

It’s tough. Really tough. The Denebians aren’t making it easy on us, even though the Admiralty has made it clear we are leaving with Jim—or not at all.

 

Thank God for Lieutenant Norman. He continues to be the liaison between the Federation and the Denebians, having spent time here as a child and understanding the cultural differences even better than Nyota.

 

It’s too bad he won’t return to the planet.

 

I think he’s afraid of their backward penal system. I can’t say I can blame him. Mudd had been sentenced to death, a certainty as a player in these games.

 

It seems like Jim, whether or not he’d intended it, has taken his place in this long line of prisoners.

 

_No._

 

Mudd—a man we’ve run into before—was never worth this fucked up mess.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love hearing your thoughts! Thank you for reading and sticking with me!


	13. Supplemental 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McCoy’s notes for Chapters 3 & 4\. Happy reading!

 

The Diary of Dr. Leonard H. McCoy  
Supplemental 3

 

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.  
.

 

**Entry 1.1112**

 

God help me. This not knowing how he’s doing most of the time—but trusting in his resilience—will be my undoing.

 

I went to find Galyn and apologize about the hole in her house, but she never answered the door. I didn’t see her child, either. It was odd, because I was sure I’d heard something from inside the house. A whimper, or a scratch. Could’ve been the dog, but...not likely.

 

They couldn’t be avoiding me. Or could they? To exemplify Starfleet’s commitment to cooperate, and follow Spock’s orders, I’ve done all that I can to be an impartial party, despite the cruel and unusual punishments the Denebians inflict upon their criminals.

 

Criminals.

 

Jim doesn’t belong here. He’s done _nothing_.

 

 

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**Entry 1.1114**

 

I’m not sure I should’ve denied knowing Jim today. I’m pretty sure I confused him.

 

I’d be confused myself. I told him I knew him—then that I didn’t. I don’t know what I was thinking.

 

I guess...I’m hoping that he’ll use that genius mind I know is still a part of him despite their programming—and come to the right conclusion himself.

 

It would hurry things along.

 

But he isn’t our Jim. He’s changed. A result of the inputs. Their barbaric programming. But something else has happened to him, too. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s something I’m not sure we can change back.

 

And that—simply scares the hell outta me, Nyota.

 

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**Entry 1.1115**

 

A girl came to my door. Galyn’s daughter. I don’t know her name. I think Jim split and ran after dropping her off. I was mad at him for that—leaving her here without a word. I’m still mad. She looked lost. Scared. She was crying. And alone.

 

An explanation from him would’ve been nice, even though I know he doesn’t understand it, himself.

 

Apparently, the girl had been “born” to Galyn some time ago...but could never leave. It’s a brutal law. It doesn’t make much sense. But she’s free to go now that she was “cured.”

 

Cured, my ass.

 

It’s a code word they use to keep the prisoners docile. What they mean is—finished their punishment. Fulfilled their sentence. They don’t let Jim or the other prisoners understand this. They’ve programmed it out of them.

 

This system is fucked up, Nyota. I’ve never seen anything like it in all the years we’ve been in space.

 

What the Denebians wanted her to do—what they want all of them here to do—is disgusting. They want to save their limited resources for the other law abiding citizens, but it isn’t worth this mess. I’d say they’re doing this for their own entertainment. I know they have video surveillance.

 

The child killed her own mother to escape this hell.

 

The sooner we get Jim outta here the better. Before something else goes south.

 

At least the girl is safe on the Enterprise now. Norman bargained for us, found a loophole since Jim also helped her clean up. I’m not sure how that technicality helped the little girl, exactly, but thank God it did.

 

I can’t bear the thought of that young girl in the middle of this killing cycle. That this is Jim’s burden, too, is devastating. To all of us.

 

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**Entry 1.1120**

 

This will be my last entry for today. I can’t….I can’t describe what I saw in Jim’s refrigerator. Even though I saw it with my own two eyes. Dammit, Jim, I saw. I saw what you did—what violence you’re capable of.

 

And I want to get the sight out of my head.

 

I want to sleep tonight, but that just keeps getting harder and harder to do the longer I’m here. Besides the Denebians, whom I don’t trust, they have these things crawling around taking the bodies. I’ve never seen one but the people here have to put their Problems in the fridge until the Bots take care of them.

 

I shudder to think what would happen if the prisoners didn’t obey this and part of me wonders why they haven’t tried this yet. Creating chaos. Maybe enabling their escape.

 

Enough about that. There is good news, if you can believe that. I did spend time with Jim today. I made him food. God, he’s skinny. He’s lost any extra weight he may have gained after Khan.

 

Jim’s shoulders were incredibly tense. He has new scars. I felt them. I’ve never seen them this close, but I’ve felt them.

 

I want to see them so badly. I’d do anything to feel that skin again. To see Jim whole and vibrant without this “other him” hanging over our heads.

 

I saw it in his eyes before this mission went to shit. What he felt for me. Before he went missing. I made sure he saw it in mine, what I felt for him. But we never said it outright, although we were intimate. I was too much of a coward.

 

We never got a chance to truly express what we felt for one another.

 

I’m not sure we ever will. It’s on the tip of my tongue now, but to say anything could ruin Jim’s chance of survival here. I can’t risk distracting him.

 

Nyota—delete this one. Or most of it, anyway. I shouldn’t have said anything.

 

This place is getting to me. I miss the Enterprise.

 

I miss Jim.

 

I miss _us_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be Sunday! Thanks so much for reading and commenting! I appreciate hearing your thoughts—and so frequently, too. ;)


	14. Supplemental 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is McCoy’s log, covering Chapters 6 & 7\. 
> 
> Two more “logs” after this, then we’re back to Jim for a chapter or two. I’ll be posting McCoy’s POV more often once we get to that point. Thank you so much for reading!

 

The Diary of Dr. Leonard H. McCoy  
Supplemental 4

 

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**Entry 1.2024**

 

I’ve tried to assert more authority over the prisoners, to see if I can influence them at all, like I seem to be doing Jim. They’ve all been programmed to see me as a Caretaker. I won’t be accosted by them, although I remain vigilant.

 

I know this place, now, like the back of my hand. There’s not much to do except walk or stay at my house.

 

You could say—I’m channeling my inner Captain.

 

He’d know what to do, how to get him out. I know we’ve done all we can, Spock, but there has to be something else.

 

I don’t trust No Name. He may be the King of the Hill, here, and human, like us—but I have a bad feeling.

 

We all have to watch our backs. That goes for you, too, Nyota.

 

  
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**Entry 1.2026**

 

I spent most of the day observing Jim from afar, trailing him, just to get a sense as to how much he’s affected by the air.

 

I wish we could have gotten a distinct reading on it instead of relying on the Denebians for the information. That vaccine I was given—it gives me the willies. I wouldn’t take it again—I’ve been far more paranoid that I can ever remember.

 

If that’s anything like Jim feels right now as he wanders around, probably looking for that damn dog, because he has a soft heart and maybe promised the kid he’d find it again, no wonder he feels like he’s uncontrollable.

 

I’ve been told Jim has asked to be kept at the hospital before training. Well before. As if he didn’t trust himself.

 

The Denebians don’t like to hear things like this—it means their system is broken.

 

That they can’t control their prisoners—or patients, as they like to call them—well at all. That the programming is confusing their natural psyche and intelligence is a given.

 

I have a feeling we’ll be weeding out a lot of bad stuff once Jim is back on the ship. I’ve already begun making a list of things we have to test him for.

 

The sooner this all ends—the better.

 

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.

.

 

**Entry 1.2028**

 

I had to use the Programmer again. You know. You’ve seen them—for your protection, No Name had told me.

 

Right.

 

I swear he receives pleasure from seeing other people in pain. I hope Jim never comes into contact with him. Especially in the state Jim is in now. Vulnerable. Obedient. Compliant.

 

I hate that device. I’ve broken my oath merely by picking it up and pointing it at one of them. It’s cruel and unusual punishment, although the Denebians have no sense of that. I’ve read their history books—they did worse to their prisoners over a hundred years ago.

 

Barbaric.

 

Freezing someone to their fears. (The two men today were going to attack Jim—I couldn’t let that happen. God forgive me.)

 

I hope I never have to use it on Jim.

 

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.

 

**Entry 1.2034**

 

I couldn’t talk about it earlier, but I almost had another look at the “Problems” Jim had in his house.

 

They give me the heebie jeebies. I won’t sleep much again. But not because of that—it’s Jim.

 

He breaks my heart. It’s a good thing you don’t see him out here, Nyota. The Cleansing and Hospital visits are bad—but this is much worse. Trying to talk to him, when you know he isn’t who he truly is. Trying to find a middle ground, when you want to just hold him. Allowing him to talk nonsense to you, when you know he has to kill again soon. Hoping he isn’t frightened by your mere presence, for then he’ll run away.

 

He was all thumbs today—I wish I knew what had bothered him so much. I made it easy on him and we ate off the floor. Yeah, it wasn’t sanitary, but I’m beyond that right now.

 

I tried to give him a message—the same taps I used when he was in a coma for two weeks after that business with Khan.

 

He didn’t seem to remember them then. It was probably useless, but I couldn’t help but try.

 

If he doesn’t come back to us, Nyota, I won’t stay in Starfleet. He’ll need me to help him try to find his missing pieces.

 

He’d do the same for me.

 

I know it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be Tuesday—I need to catch up on my writing. :) Thanks for reading! I love hearing what you are all thinking...comments feed my inspiration. :) Thank you!


	15. Supplemental 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This covers Chapters 7 & 8\. Updating earlier than anticipated. Hope you enjoy the read.

 

The Diary of Dr. Leonard H. McCoy  
Supplemental 5

 

 

.  
.  
.

**Entry 2.0001**

 

I feel like we’re finally getting somewhere. Jim and myself. And it makes me nervous. I can’t remember the last time I was nervous around him. The next move I make is crucial. He has to remain close to me—like he wants me around.

 

To hell with their stipulations, though. The Denebians want to make sure Jim knows us before we take him—in his best interest, they’d said—but we all know what they really want.

 

Someone who can keep the prisoners excited—and preoccupied. Every single one of them want to make their way up the ranks now that Jim is in the game. All of the prisoners are fighting harder, doing whatever it takes to “win.” The thing is, I’ve never seen so much death and destruction.

 

Jim told us all about Tarsus—and if it was what he said it was, this prison world will be Tarsus all over again before we’re done.

 

 

.  
.  
.

**Entry 2.0002**

 

 

I felt eyes on me today, but when I looked around and through the windows, no one was there. I don’t think Jim would blatantly watch me, but I was half-naked.

 

I keep having nightmares. Of Jim dying in the warp core. Migraines have been increasingly common. It’s all I can do to clean up before I find Jim.

 

But I’m more worried about Jim than myself. I know what’s been happening to him. They’re doing it to all the prisoners.

 

It’s not right. It’s a torture of a different kind—and highly inappropriate. I’m worried about the ramifications. I don’t think it’s too much to believe that these men will suffer from sexual dysfunctions or confusion later on in life, if not now, among other issues. They’re being forced into a sexual rediscovery of themselves—and made to feel attraction for a gender they’re not naturally attracted to—or not at all. I’ve seen more instances of the latter circumstance than I care to remember. They aren’t all single men or women when they arrive, or when they’re charged and sentenced. Just last week, a man was separated from his husband—only they don’t know it—and don’t care anymore, their sexual orientation now altered.

 

There’ve been other cases of prisoners forced out of their natural inclination. Including this one, which hits closer to home. Jim and Galyn, who were once both bi.

 

Note I said— _were_.

 

Neither of them felt any desire for the other despite having the compulsion to spend time together. And Galyn looked, oddly enough, just like Gaila. That’s too much of a coincidence for me. Somehow, they knew Jim, Nyota. They knew him enough to find a prisoner who looked like Gaila. They knew him—brought him here—changed him—altered him—are using him for their benefit—and now he has a disease on top of this mess.

 

A disease that’s widespread in this “prison” and prohibiting us from bringing him back on the Enterprise, at least until we know exactly what we’re dealing with here.

 

Yeah, I know I’m not supposed to discuss the disease in these logs, but I’m pissed. Really pissed.

 

.  
.  
.

 

**Entry 2.0010**

 

Well, now I’m mad about something else. It’s probably for the best, since I can’t do anything about the other things right now.

 

I tripped on two dead bodies on my front porch this morning and nearly sprained my ankle.

 

You know how cats like to deposit their victims at the owners’ doors? As a sign of respect? An offering?

 

Yep. I don’t know what I was expecting from Jim Kirk as a sign that he knows to trust me—but it wasn’t this.

 

God help me, James Tiberius Kirk, if you so ever pull a stunt like this again, I’ll skin you alive, myself, and drop you off at Spock’s front door.

 

Not out of respect—just simply washing my hands of you.

 

Jim.

 

I miss you and that shit-eating grin you’d be giving me about right now.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, review? Thank you to those of you who have left comments—that helps my inspiration and fuels these frequent updates more than you know. ❤️


	16. Supplemental 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McCoy’s logs for Chapter 9 & part of 10. The next chapter will be in Jim’s POV. I know I haven’t said anything about what, exactly, the Enterprise is doing. It will clear up at a later time. :)
> 
> Thank you for your patience—as I said earlier, I’m using this story as the tool to help me keep writing and get in the habit of posting more often, in the hopes that it just keeps stirring the muse for other stories. It seems to be working. I plotted the story out before I began—and planned for about 35 chapters. I’m going to try to keep it at 30 because there is another story I want to share. It will also be in first person, with shorter chapters, which is much easier and quicker writing for me than third person and my other, more plotty stories, atm. All that to say—thank you for sticking with the story, and having fun reading, which is the most important thing here.

  
The Diary of Dr. Leonard H. McCoy

Supplemental 6

 

.

.

.

 

**Entry 2.0025**

 

I’ve been pacing the house for an hour, waiting for Jim to return from his fool errand.

Figures that when I’m finally able to sleep—a cat nap, ironically—I wake up to see that Jim has flown the coop. He’s lucky. For now. I’m not happy about those dead guys, and I need to get them out of sight before the Peekers take a greater interest in them.

 

I know approximately when his next Training is, tomorrow, and I have a good idea as to what he does during the days between. Heading for that training store was not something I’d expected him to do when the next fight was looming ahead. But the prisoners don’t understand this—not completely—and are hard-pressed to feel the same urgency I do as a Caretaker.

 

I worry about Jim being at that store. Don’t get me started on the man who runs it, who acts like he owns the place, let alone Eden.

 

And maybe he does—the Denebians sure make themselves scarce—but I just don’t like the thought of No Name, as Jim calls him, talking to Jim alone.

 

I should have gone directly there—but it’s too late. I see him. Jim. We’re going to have words—and he’ll think twice about dropping off a package like that again.

 

So help me, Jim Kirk—

 

I don’t know what I’m going to do with him. He’s a killer. Trained like he’s never been before. He has no moral compass, nothing of his previous humanity to speak of. The sad thing is—

 

—none of them do. They’re not acting of their own accord—and I’m throwing caution to the wind even speaking of it—but it’s almost impossible to distinguish the programming from the disease now. Nyota, I hope your studies are coming along so that Spock understands how badly we need an antidote.

 

Jim—our Captain, the respected and revered Jim Kirk—would be devastated to know his hands are covered in innocent blood. And not dozens. Hundreds.

 

I just don’t know, Nyota. I just don’t know how we’re all going to survive this one without a lasting set of severe battle scars. I’ve seen worse men develop PTSD and lose their minds from killing a few innocents. But this is Jim. JIM.

 

I have to go.

 

I’m not sure what’s going to happen next. I have a bad feeling. About everything right now.

 

I haven’t eaten yet today—I don’t feel like myself. I have to face a man who knows how to wield a knife better than a phaser now, who has spent more time handling limbs and hands and even hearts than I have had as a doctor in months, for God’s sakes, and whose only priority is ridding himself of the competition until he’s First Man.

 

And we all know how hard Jim will fight to get what he wants. At least that hasn’t changed. It’s the one thing I can depend on.

 

Somehow, we have to figure out how to use that to our advantage.

 

 

**.**

**.**

**.**

 

**Entry 2.0027**

 

 

I have to record this quickly, while Jim is in the other room. Taking care of his problems.

 

I passed out. It wasn’t his fault—or the blood—it was my own foolishness. I knew he was pulling my leg about their reanimation, but I still doubted my own intuition. This place—makes you second guess everything.

 

I also should've eaten something before confronting Jim about the two men. I shouldn’t have gotten mad about it in the first place—these things are Jim’s life. How can I judge him for this?

 

I have to remember to remain calm—or Jim will want nothing to do with me.

 

The Vulcan reminded me too much of the Ambassador, although he was considerably younger. I know Jim will be devastated to learn that he passed away while he was here, brainwashed into a prisoner in Mudd’s stead.

 

Spock still hasn’t gotten over it, and that, in turn, has affected you, Nyota. And then we lost Jim. We were thrust into this mission before any of us could talk about it.

 

This is the second mentor Jim has lost in just a few years. One right before shit went down, and this second lost while he was incapacitated.

 

I just don’t want to think about how much this will hurt him, but I have a feeling—a bad feeling—it will get buried under the fact that this still has to do with Mudd. I never thought we’d have to see that man again after the first incident. He’s one slippery bastard, although without his distress call, we wouldn’t have found Jim in the first place.

 

I don’t know how Spock managed to look past this and grant Mudd safe passage out of here, but he did. At least the Admiralty is working hard on negotiations, but the issue with the dilithium Mudd promised the Denebians and failed to deliver can’t be swept under the rug. Not with the Treaty hanging in balance, and the resources of the entire planet at risk, and now the health of their population. This isn’t just about Jim anymore. We’re waiting on a shipment—which will help the Denebians’ commerce and trade—and then we will be that much closer to getting Jim back. And, hopefully, to having better relations with this species. I wish they’d trust us.

 

It could be months.

 

If Jim manages to survive.

 

Man #2 is not to be trifled with. He’s Romulan and considerably stronger. Not only that, but he’s been heavily medicated for months, now. With steroids, it appears. I’ve looked at his file. His performance and weight—even his intelligence scores. They’ve favored him. It’s not fair, no. But there’s nothing we can do about it.

 

I only hope Jim has some advantage he can use against him. There has to be something.

 

Keep an ear open, and an eye out, Nyota. Covertly. Maybe you can find something else at the nurses’ station that will help Jim. It’s a medical risk, but everything’s risky. And I’m here. I won’t let Jim die on us again.

 

We have to try. We have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I can write two more chapters tonight, I’ll post tomorrow! Send good vibes! ;)
> 
> ETA: I forgot to mention—yes, the details in this chapter puts this story in a verse where Beyond does NOT happen. At least not within the same time frame.


	17. 2.1 Chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 2 begins now. And we’re back to Jim’s POV for a chapter or so. Thanks for reading!

  
Chapter 2.1  
CHASE

 

 

 

“ _Mudd.”_

 

McCoy’s eyes flicker, as if I’d told him a great secret. Looking back, I had. I’d told him nearly everything. “You know him?”

 

My eyes follow the streaks in the bathtub as I try to ignore the swift pulsing of my blood. “Mudd,” I whisper.

 

Part of me is repulsed—the part of me that is the Echo I sometimes hear now—and I back away.

 

McCoy’s eyes pull me back in. “Do you know him, Jim? Does the name mean anything to you?”

 

_Mudd. Mudd. MUDD._

 

The name beats my brain, senselessly, like waves against an immobile, dead ship.

 

Am I dead? Could I be? Is this the end?

 

McCoy touches me, with his words, his hands, he imprints on me, again and again. And I know—that’s how I know I haven’t slaughtered him in his sleep like the other Caretakers. “Jim?”

 

I cover my ears with my hands, pressing in until it hurt, as if that alone will prevent the screeching from scarring my mind like the knives I use on the other Men. “I—I—”

 

Fear stops me from telling him, and I shake my head, ramming the thoughts into one side of my brain and to the other. I want to forget. To focus. He doesn’t understand what’s at stake.

 

“Okay,” he says.

 

Just like that. He backs away. Gives up. Let’s me fight my inner demon alone.

 

I think—and I don’t know why—but I resent him for that. I want help. Not to be alone. I’ve been alone for so long. I need someone. I need him.

 

I stand, gasping, and cold, having let go of the towel, desperate for silence. But wanting him more. “I—I-I-I’m c-cold.”

 

“Dammit, of course you are.”

 

McCoy bends to pick up the towel, which is puddled at my feet. Water drips off of me, now cooled. The sensation tells me I am a human who can’t take care of himself.

 

“I’m sorry, Jim,” he whispers. “About everything.”

 

A deep groan pushes up from within me. How can I ever win, when I’m stupid? Incompetent? No Name called me an Imbecile. It must mean something like this.

 

I’m not aware of McCoy as he dries me off, and helps me dress into the uniform, as he calls it. I hardly hear him speak hurriedly to me, telling me that he has to leave, that my training is to start, much earlier than he expected. He sees it on my face, in my eyes, and hears it in my voice. That I’m dangerous, and he knows I don’t want to hurt him. Nor him, me.

 

I’m helpless, to anything he does to me, to anything they want me to do, but he doesn’t realize this. I’m not a threat—not really.

 

And I wish he would understand, something cries out within me, but he doesn’t hear.

 

He strokes my cheek, cards his fingers through my wet hair, at the same time apologizing, again, and again, like a broken record, but I don’t know what that is or how I know this, whispering the words that he loves me into my ear like a kiss—when I don’t understand the word—love—love is what?—and that he’ll see me, soon, at the hospital.

 

I nod mutely, overcome by the sensation that comes before I lose myself to the game. I feel cold again, and I reach for him—but he’s not there. He’s gone. I follow the invisible path of McCoy, the scent of him, the trail he’d taken out of the house, to stay clear of me, the longing in my heart unsatisfied and growing with every step. A gnawing hunger for a man I don’t even know, but feel like I’ve spent two lifetimes with, touching and this kissing. The mystery is a dream, and the dream a mystery, entwined so that They’ll never let me solve it or remember.

 

I see the Peekers from the corner of my eye, and recognize their warning. I’m disobeying them, and No Name. I have only Them and No Name and the Others to answer to.

 

I forget about McCoy, lost in the clarity and will to survive.

 

It’s too late to return to the house, and I have nothing else, nowhere else to go. Nothing else to do.

 

I’m Man #3.

 

And I. Must. Win.

 

 

_____________

 

 

My pockets are empty. I’ve left without it. My one weapon. I see it clearly now, why No Name had given it to me.

 

The Programmer. The weapon I’d forgotten.

 

I can’t ask the Peekers for assistance—they’ve vanished, leaving me with my Mistake. I’m alone, with him. Man #2. My hands useless at my side.

 

This is certainly...a Problem. And I’m about to become someone else’s.

 

“Kirk,” he says, not an ounce of weakness in his voice. “I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

 

I can’t find my strength, like he has. I breathe out, out of air. Out of mind. Out of time.

 

I was right. No Name had called me Stupid. Not Imbecile.

 

When the Romulan charges me, I run.

 

I am not—at any speed, even with Fear on my side—fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll update tomorrow, since I’m still five chapters ahead of you. Thanks so much for your continued comments, which are always helpful to the muse! :)


	18. 2.2 Injury

  
Chapter 2.2  
INJURY

 

My Caretaker is humming a simple melody when I wake up in the hospital. The music falls over me like soft rain pattering against the window and stealing my attention away from my fate, here, with a gentle whisper. It’s a familiar tune. A lilting rhythm that has rocked me to sleep before. It makes me think of my mother.

 

I have never remembered her before, and gasp lightly as the strange face appears in my thoughts, unsmiling yet beautiful. Happy yet sad. Tortured—like me, I think.

 

The humming cuts off abruptly. The vision of my mother disappears, but I want it back. I turn my neck to see why my nurse stopped. She meets my eyes, hers growing wide and sad and terrified—all at once.

 

I open my mouth to tell her to continue with the song, but my throat is too sore. I can’t speak. And my body, now that the music is gone, feels as if it was stomped on, then twisted by a force larger and stronger than me. I can’t remember why.

 

“Jim,” she says in surprise, and I imagine her curling around me, like a whisper, her hair falling across my face, something wet falling on my cheek.

 

In my daydream, I’m not sure why she’s embracing me. She’s never done that before. But as I see her draw closer to me, I stiffen, the muscles spasming and aggravating the ache I feel from head to toe.

 

But I know this is a daydream. It’s not true. I blink my eyes to see her standing a few feet away from my bed. I’m Wicked, I think. Dirty with What I’ve Done, and that’s why she doesn’t approach me. That’s why none of them do, except for McCoy.

 

He—and I don't know why—is different.

 

“He’s awake,” she calls out, twisting her neck to look behind her. “Jim’s awake.”

 

I can’t lift my head to see who she’s talking to, but I think I know before his face appears in my line of sight—directly above me.

 

He doesn’t smile or comfort me like Nurse had with her song. He acts cooler than during our last meeting, and avoids looking at me. Really looking at me. He’s a doctor now.

 

And good at it.

 

I repeat this, like a mantra— _He’s good—He’s a good doctor—He’s good_ —and I relax, confident in nothing else but this. In being in McCoy’s capable hands.

 

Like the Nurse’s humming, it’s familiar. I’m too tired to resist when he checks my pulse, shines a light in my eyes, checks my ears and head, which are all sensitive to his touch.

 

I want to hold on to him, but my arm will not budge. My body, which has been Trained, will not cooperate. I feel as if I’m in a cocoon. Or out of my own body. A puppet, manipulated, and McCoy—and No Name—hold the strings, which are unresponsive. They’ve put a spell on me, I’m sure.

 

I’m not sure which I’d rather be. Moving of my own volition in Eden—or safely managed by them. “Pick your poison,” I murmur.

 

He lifts his hands from my abdomen, where’d been pressing, gently, and looks at me. “What was that?”

 

I blink like a drunken man, and even my eyelids hurt.

 

“Jim?”

 

“Jim, do you hear us?”

 

My eyes close, heavy and unwilling to listen. I can’t answer him, or her. I feel myself slipping away from the world around me.

 

“The sedative is kicking in.”

 

“Thank God,” McCoy breathes out. “He’s in a lot of pain, although his threshold is damn high now—and that’s dangerous. He doesn’t know when to stop.”

 

“None of them do.”

 

McCoy grunts. “But at least I don’t think he remembers what happened.”

 

The nurse’s quiet response unnerves me. I don’t know why. I try, in vain, to ask. But they’ve given me something to shut me up. Like No Name has done to me before.

 

I remember now, that I’d been Training. But did I win—or lose?

 

“Do you know what he said?” McCoy asks.

 

“He said, “Pick your poison.’”

 

“That’s…”

 

“Weird.”

 

The doctor sighs. “Do you think it means anything?”

 

“You can’t know with him.”

 

“Have we ever?”

 

“He’s Jim.”

 

“Exactly. We know nothing.”

 

_We know nothing._

 

But they’re here? He’s befriended me. He wants me to know him. So does she, I think.

 

Why?

 

I fall asleep, troubled—and confused.

 

________

 

 

The next time I see McCoy, I’m still in the Hospital. In the same bed. I didn’t expect to be.

 

My heart skips a beat.

 

I’m still here. I wasn’t Taken.

 

“I won?”

 

McCoy doesn’t answer. He won’t look at me. His eyes are fixed on the paper he’s writing on. He’s keeping a record of me. Has he been doing this each time I visit here? Is there more about me than I know written on those pages?

 

I need to see those pages—but I can’t read, even if I did.

 

“Nurse?” I ask hoarsely, finally finding my voice.

 

She doesn’t answer, but after I turn my neck in the other direction, I find her in the swell of activity around me. She doesn’t look well. She looks like McCoy, drained of energy and will. I can’t shake the feeling that it’s because of me. All because of me.

 

But I have to know. If I Lost, I can’t be Cured. I won’t be able to find them. I have to Win. Why don’t they know that?

 

I have to get their attention. “Please.” My throat aches, but I persist, and try again. “Did I Win?”

 

She finally looks up, her jaw working, and Strange Things are pouring from her eyes. “Yes, Jim. You Won.”

 

And I remember the hands that had wrapped around my throat, the powerful Romulan lifting me like I weighed nothing, and me, taking the phaser from his belt.

 

“Nyota.” McCoy’s words are sharp, and would make even me back down, but she pulls up a chair beside my bed.

 

I respect her for this. And I’m selfishly pleased she’s answering my questions. I feel alone, even though McCoy is in the same room. Even though he’s moved to where I can see him, his eyes steady on my face, as if he hasn’t seen me in years.

 

“Your name….is Nyota?”

 

Her lips curve into a warm smile—with confidence for her—or for me—and I’m comforted. “Yes.”

 

“I Won?”

 

“Yes,” she repeats.

 

My pulse races as I consider this. “But…” I don’t remember all of the Training. I don’t remember killing him. “I’m injured.”

 

“You were,” she explains. “Dr. McCoy used the bone knitter on your wrist, your leg…”

 

“Bone knitter, my ass,” McCoy mutters. “It’s too ancient to be worth anything.”

 

She lifts a brow at McCoy.

 

McCoy grimaces. “Sorry. Go on.”

 

“And healed the skin on your neck,” Nyota says.

 

Maybe that’s why it hurts to talk.

 

“You also had surgery. You need to take it easy for a few weeks, Jim,” McCoy says. “Your bones are healing, but it’s not as fast as you’re—I’m—used to.”

 

I don’t know what he means, but I don’t have the strength to ask anything else.

 

He stands over me, the clipboard down at his side. I eye it with interest. His fingers clench around the rigid edge—

 

Until he releases his grip and angles the clipboard so I can see the symbols printed on them. “These are your records, Jim.”

 

I can’t look away, although it all looks strange to me. “I know.”

 

“You do?” He seems surprised.

 

When I don’t answer, he taps his fingers on the clipboard. Once, then twice, then three times.

 

I’m mesmerized by his ring, but somehow manage to drag my gaze upwards to his—and wonder.

 

He smiles at me, so easily it seems, guiding me with his light. “I wish I could keep you here, but you’ll be going home. But I’ll check in on you, alright?”

 

I know that, too. I nod, wanting to keep him with me, wherever I go.

 

Nyota squeezes my hand. “Can’t we convince them to let him stay here, where he’d be more comfortable? He’s still in pain.”

 

But they don’t know. Pain is nothing. Pain is _nothing_. There are far more worse things than that here. Echo _knows_.

 

“They all are,” McCoy says bitterly. “They go on, damaged, bruised, broken, malnourished, brutally hurting one another—”

 

“It’s not his fault,” she says, gently grabbing his arm.

 

“I know—Christ, I _know_ this is out of his control—but it doesn’t negate the fact that it happens. And my hands are tied.”

 

I hate that he’s hurting and I don’t understand why, or why it makes me feel this way. I hate that they both look at me with that same caution and fear in their eyes that they use to look at everyone else.

 

But they forget—“I’ll be fine,” I remind them. “I’m Man #2 now.”

 

Only one to go. First Man. Whoever he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is McCoy’s POV. Thanks so much for reading and commenting—just knowing there are readers is an inspiration and the thoughts on the fic icing on the cake!


	19. Supplemental 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the summary-altering compulsion I seem to have atm. 😂 I think this one works better. I’m honestly an awful decision maker—and generally have a hard time with summaries—so I appreciate your patience about it. 
> 
> Here is the log for part of Chapter 10 & 17.

  
The Diary of Doctor Leonard H. McCoy  
Supplemental 7

 

.  
.  
.

 

**Entry 2.0030**

 

How did we miss this?

 

The Vulcan and the other man Jim killed—although one was human, the other was a type of Android. An _advanced_ android.

 

I collected a sample from the refrigerator because we drained the fluids in the bathtub—don’t ask me about the Problems, Nyota. Don’t ask.

 

I wish I had a way to send it to Spock, without their prying eyes but for now, we’ll try to test it in the lab.

 

This means—it’s entirely possible—that not everyone Jim has killed had been a living, breathing creature.

 

I’m not sure whether I should be relieved—or more concerned than ever that what Jim has been doing for three years, does not seem as real as it once had, although he seems to be unable to tell the difference. It doesn’t negate the diseased and programmed minds of the prisoners, Jim included, or the fact that the planet is on its last reserves.

 

But this explains why we haven’t been allowed to see all of the “patients.” It also explains why I wasn’t allowed to bring my tricorder and have mostly depended on old-fashioned medicine and guesswork.

 

What else have we missed?

 

I have a feeling we’ll walk away from all of this with more questions than answers.

 

 

 

.  
.  
.

 

**Entry 2.0032**

 

My heart is still beating at warp-speed, Nyota. I thought ignoring what happened when Jim became dangerous, like the last time I saw him, right before he left for Training—Goddamn it, it’s too early, what the hell are the Denebians thinking?—and not logging it officially but discussing the android situation would help me calm down—but it didn’t. I’ve tested the damn fluid and blood, trying to distinguish one from the other, but the fluid absorbed the blood.

 

I know I’m rambling, but I can’t handle the way it happened. Letting Jim go when he’s like that. The darkness that comes over him, that I see in his eyes and on his face. When you realize, he’s a true prisoner of Eden.

 

Before I lost him completely to the disease, I told him I loved him, Nyota. Do you believe that? He can’t even fathom the word. He has no idea what it means, or how much my heart breaks over the fact that he doesn’t remember me, or the friendship we shared.

 

I think I’d just be happy with that. A friend. Jim as my friend. I don’t care if he doesn’t remember what we had before.

 

 

.  
.  
.

 

**Entry 2.0040**

 

I’m waiting for Jim, who should be here at any moment. Nyota’s bringing him. All I’ve been told, by the head Denebian nurse, no less, is that Jim suffered multiple injuries that are serious but not life-threatening.

 

I can’t, Ny. I fucking cannot deal—

 

But I think—no—I’m certain—for the most part, that the programming is a coverup, Nyota. You tell Spock that. Something to distract us. We’ve never been shown how they program their prisoner—

 

_A sharp inhale. “...Dear God. Jim!”_

_“He’s lost a lot of blood, Leo. He’s weak.”_

_“He has to have surgery—now! I don’t have anything left for a transfusion, dammit. Nyota—”_

_“—I’ll contact the Enterprise.”_

_“Who was it?”_

_A pause. “The Romulan.”_

_“I think this is some of his blood, not Jim’s. He was Romulan, then.”_

_“What?”_

_“I’ll explain later. I’ll get him prepped for surgery. Tell Christine we need 12 units of Jim’s blood, and full and abdominal and chest trauma trays, including meds, beamed here, STAT.”_

_“Got it.”_

_“And Uhura?” A pause. “I owe you for this. We all do.”_

_“He’s my friend, too.”_

 

 

.  
.  
.

 

**Entry 2.0045**

 

We almost lost him on the table. He’s paler and thinner than he was even yesterday. The Jim Kirk of Eden—is not the Captain Kirk of the Enterprise. He’s a skeleton of the captain. A shell of his former self. The Denebians argue he’s—all the prisoners—are animals.

 

The disease is stripping the humanity from these men and women. I saw several other prisoners, creeping up in the ranks, and they’re looking like Jim, more and more, each day.

 

Jim will make it, as long as I manage his care. I promise you that—I can’t consider anything else. But he has to listen to me about what’s needed for his recovery—in case I’m not there to help him when he’s back “home.”

 

Some home. There are Problems in his refrigerator, nothing to eat, one fucking blanket, and a single spoon.

 

I’m worried they’ll start limiting my contact with him, now that he’s one of their “finalists.” And so vulnerable.

 

I won’t be able to sleep tonight.

 

I don’t think Nyota will, either.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still five chapters ahead of you—so this is good. It helps me to stay ahead with this one so I can make sure it’s not a chaotic mess (even if you all are still confused LOL.) I want to write two more chapters before I post Chapter 20, so I’m thinking the next update will be Sunday. It will be Jim’s POV. Thanks so much for reading, and if you comment, you’re the absolute best! Hugs.


	20. 2.3 Distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m almost finished with that second chapter so here is an update to keep the momentum. :) Hope you enjoy the read!

  
Chapter 2.3  
DISTANCE

 

I stay an extra day at the Hospital. I’m sure McCoy had something to do with this, but say nothing.

 

I don’t want to move from my bed. I’ve never felt this complacent about recovery before, or about leaving. Something must be wrong with me.

 

I tell McCoy, as he helps me into the hoverchair. “It’s the medication, Jim.”

 

“Why?”

 

“The side effects are different for different people. You—it slows you down. So you’re not—”

 

“No,” I say, frustrated. He doesn’t understand. “Why am I taking the medication?”

 

He looks like he doesn’t know what to say—or doesn’t want to answer. “To help you.”

 

“With what?”

 

He struggles with his reply, his jaw working as if he is fighting to keep from shouting, or replying in anger, Echo tells me.

 

“Because of Training?” I prod.

 

“That’s part of it.”

 

I want to know the other part, but he averts his gaze. The conversation—this one, at least—is over.

 

“Where are we going?” I ask, when he programs the chair and it moves towards the door, taking us into another corridor.

 

It appears as if they’ve added on to the hospital, yet—everything looks the same. I remember being frustrated about this before and although I’m not now, I imagine I am again. I can never tell where we’re going.

 

It’s never mattered much to me before, being alone, but I’ve never had McCoy beside me either, his face haggard. There’s something oddly refined about his jaw, and the hair that has just started to grow there, that I want to touch and experience for myself.

 

But my hand lays dormant in my lap, my thoughts suddenly jumbled by a sense of urgency and another, strange feeling, one that suppresses the longing. The latter soon wins, and my thoughts float away, as if blowing in the wind on a summer’s day in Io—

 

“What is it?” he murmurs, when he catches me looking up at him.

 

“I don’t know,” I say honestly.

 

He holds my gaze for a moment. “I’m sorry, Jim.”

 

I don’t know for what—until we get to the Cleansing room. It makes my stomach knot when I see him, leaning against the wall, as if he were expecting me.

 

No Name smiles at me. “You’re feeling better, I hope?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

McCoy snorts faintly.

 

“Always a soldier.” No Name motions to the door. “Well, I suppose you should get started.”

 

It doesn’t make sense. I don’t feel...strange. “But I’m not—”

 

“A risk to anyone?”

 

I nod. I don’t feel any Compulsions. I don’t feel—anything.

 

“It’s just a precaution, per Dr. McCoy’s request, since you’ll require a longer time to recuperate from Training.”

 

“And, this time, I’m going home with you,” McCoy says, his eyes on No Name, although I’m sure he’s speaking to me, directly.

 

“I’m aware,” No Name says.

 

“I’m just making sure we’re on the same page.”

 

“You know he—excuse me, _It_ , will be fine.”

 

McCoy’s breath escapes him. “ _It_?”

 

No Name smiles at me. “It is our Asset now. Just like the Androids you’ve discovered. It is perfectly fine with this arrangement, aren’t you, Finalist?”

 

I see no problem with it and nod. No Name pats my head, and I stop, body still because he demanded it.

 

McCoy looks at me, then No Name, his face losing its color. “He’s a human being—”

 

No Name steps towards him, cocking his head. “Are you certain about this, Dr. McCoy?”

 

“You better be damn right, I am,” McCoy snarls.

 

“It’s too violent to be human. It’s done awful things. You know this,” No Name says, voice cool.

 

This is correct—and this truth keeps Echo away. “He’s right,” I affirm with satisfaction. “It can’t be human.”

 

No Name’s smile widens. “See?”

 

McCoy’s eyes briefly close. “Jim—be quiet.”

 

“You’ve seen what It’s done,” No Name says, forcing Echo to hide again. “There is no exception to the Law, here.”

 

But McCoy shakes his head. “Prisoners are not Assets.”

 

“We do take care of them—which is why the Cleansing is protocol.” He pauses, pushing the button that makes the doors slide open. “For all of them.”

 

McCoy hesitates, eyes glancing at the open door. “What do you mean?”

 

“It will not endure this session alone.”

 

McCoy sucks in a breath. “Dammit—”

 

“Weakness means death here,” No Name says coolly. “Would you have It die prematurely? Be of no use to us?”

 

McCoy’s expression falls. He looks...lost.

 

My gaze flickers between the two men, wondering what my fate will be. McCoy does not want me to follow their Guidelines, although that’s what I’ve been trained to do. No Name wants me to survive.

 

I don’t have a say in either.

 

My heart remains calm. A steady beat—even as I’m silently shown the door and forced to walk in on my own.

 

McCoy follows close behind me, but he doesn’t stare at the other faces in the room, like I do. I remember seeing them before. There is one woman, amongst those gathered, waiting with their eyes on the ceiling, the chains around their necks forcing their chins back. They wear no clothes and, soon, I’m stripped, as well. It is more functional this way.

 

I stand underneath the empty one and wait for it to be locked into place. I remember now—this has been Protocol—until McCoy arrived.

 

McCoy’s hands shake as he fastens it around my neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, eyes red-rimmed like I’m torturing him. “They say there’s a chance you could all—hurt each other—“

 

I’m confused why he feels so badly, when I’m only an Asset to them, and say so.

 

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I look around me, as much as my headlocked position allows.

 

“No Name’s gone,” the doctor assures me. “You’re safe. You can ask me anything, Jim.”

 

I don’t care about being safe—only this. “It must be Cleansed.” I speak in a roughened, broken voice, my head forced back and chin upward until my throat is tight.

 

McCoy’s eyes glisten. “This isn’t right. This isn’t how we treat anyone.”

 

“It is not what you think it is,” I whisper.

 

“You are what you forgot, Jim,” McCoy whispers, eyes closing, his hand slipping around my neck, and over the iron collar, locking it once more into place. “And I’ll help you remember this if I have to go back to the beginning. If it takes a lifetime. I swear to you.”

 

But I can’t be what he thinks. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand. I look up at the ceiling, trying to regulate my breathing in this new position I’m in. The collar fits like a second skin, forcing me to submit to it, but it’s impossible to relax. I’m aware of McCoy’s every breath, every move, and every lasting glance.

 

He smells like honey—a sunny day—but I’ve suddenly lost my voice, and can’t ask him why.

 

“I have to go, okay?” He leans forward, pressing his forehead against the side of my face, just below my ear, where he can reach, but I cannot.

 

My throat shrivels. I understand, too, what is happening between us.

 

His breath is hot on my neck, a promise for something else, a memory at the back of my mind, until it fades like a shooting star, with nothing to show for it. “But I’ll be back,” he whispers, the sensation of his breath across my skin making my toes curl pleasantly. “Always. You’re my Captain. _Captain_ , Jim. And friend. Damn this place. _Damn_.”

 

 

___________

 

 

He comes to get me when the hour is finished, unlocking the collar with one, shaking hand. I’ve lost track of time, and fall, weak, into his arms. He helps me into a thin pair of pants, but my head lolls on his shoulder when he tries to put a shirt over my head.

 

He sighs, putting the shirt on one of the benches. “It’s warm as hell outside,” he mutters. “You’ll be fine.”

 

There’s no hoverchair this time, but Nyota is there, too, and together, they help me out of the hospital. I’m slow, but they’re patient with me. I don’t understand why it is this much work to get home. It never was before—or they’d leave me, unconscious. Maybe they’re testing McCoy and Nyota, too.

 

For their sakes, I cooperate.

 

There’s a hovercraft, waiting. I don’t remember the ride to my home, but Nyota drives, leaving McCoy to tend to me as I shiver from the loss of sweat, and hallucinate in my fatigue.

 

The craft stops at my house, where Snoops is sitting, waiting in the front yard, looking at us. I blink my eyes slowly at It, to make sure It is real. I decide that I like using this word— _It_ —except for when I think about McCoy and Nyota.

 

“Huh,” McCoy says, scratching his head, and then I know It is real. That he sees It, too.

 

I stare at the dog who stares back at me, silent, wondering if It feels Nothing, too. Like me.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Your comments have been fantastic—thanks so much for the continued support. <3


	21. 2.4 Emerge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Junker5 and diamondblue4, for looking over these chapters—I appreciate it so much. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy the chapter. :)

Chapter 2.4  
EMERGE

 

 

Now that McCoy is staying at my house, I don’t want him to leave. Or Nyota, either, because she bakes me treats. I’ve tried to share them with Snoops, but he won’t eat them. Afterward, she apologizes before she drives back to the Hospital. I sense that McCoy is sad when she’s gone—or worried. Since he is a Caretaker, I assume this is why and think nothing more of it.

 

At least McCoy is here, helping me while I remain on the bed, too weak to move. The trip home exhausted me. It is one of their tricks, I think, forcing me to expend the energy I have left. Until there is nothing left of me. They Cleanse me each time before I leave the Hospital but I like having him here—he’s interesting and keeps my mind preoccupied—I’d ask for a Cleansing again and again, just to keep him.

 

He uses Tools to get himself ready in the morning. I have none of these, but I’m fascinated by his. He says they’re outdated, but I didn’t know a mint could clean your teeth, or that the comb could shape hair so well, or that a face needed shaving.

 

Mine does not. It is clean. It doesn’t grow, nor does my chest grow hair like his.

 

“Do you want mine?” he asks me softly, when he uses his comb for the second consecutive morning, standing in my doorway, watching me.

 

I could never take that from him. It makes him happy, and so little does, these days. “It doesn’t require one.”

 

His mouth makes a tight smile. “Your hair might. Hold on.” He leaves then returns with a small mirror from his room, the extra room I’ve never paid attention to until now. “Look.”

 

I lift my head off the pillow and squint at my reflection, but see only It—who is too small for Its clothing, which bunches into extra fabric around my arms, chest, and even neck. I’m malfunctioning. “It looks fine.” _But my clothes_ , I want to say.

 

McCoy’s laugh distracts me. “Your hair’s sticking up everywhere.” He bites his lip and sits on the bed beside me. “You mind?”

 

I shrug, like it doesn’t matter.

 

_It does._

 

“Okay.” He puts on gloves and starts to comb my hair, face set in concentration. Although I don’t see the purpose in this, it feels nice, the pressure on my head, the slight, gentle tugging of the comb pulling my strands of hair.

 

“Jesus, Jim,” he breathes out. “You have so many knots since your hair’s gotten so long, past your ears. I’m worried about your teeth more than ever now...and your overall cleanliness. We have to go over hygiene with you again. I’ll find a soft cloth for your gums. They’re bleeding.”

 

Again? “You’ve talked to me before about...hygiene?” The word is awkward on my lips. I don’t like it.

 

His hand stills, his face twisting. He’s upset with me. “Just yesterday we discussed grooming, Jim. Something that I think will help your overall health, and not just physical, but mental, too.”

 

I think I should feel shame—my Echo does—but I bat it away like a cat bats at Its toy. I laugh, to appease him. “It doesn’t need to be taught.”

 

After I’m First Man, a title that sounds too human to me now, I will head for the Land Beyond Eden. My Echo—and its continuously aggravating voice in my head—will not let me return.

 

No one needs to understand these things there.

 

McCoy does not agree. He clasps my hand in his own. “Jim, there’s no shame in being taught something you don’t know. Or don’t understand. It happens to all of us.”

 

Shame? He thinks I feel it?

 

I feel nothing. His hand makes me feel nothing. The Echo tells me something is wrong.

 

My heart pounds, the sound deafening in my ears, my world shrinking into this one single moment. “It can’t breathe.”

 

McCoy’s expression shifts, and he looks at me, deeply concerned. “Hold on,” he says quietly, and pulls a Tool from the case by the bed. It pricks my neck, a sting like a bug in the woods, and the world rights again before my eyes.

 

“You’re not well. I shouldn’t talk so much.” He helps me back onto the pillow.

 

My breath steadies, but slowly, until I have no strength left to tell him he should talk more. That I like his voice. His voice is a constant when nothing else is.

 

McCoy lays beside me on his side, staring into my eyes, pushing the strands of hair off my face with a gentle sweep of his hand, his presence slowing my breath more and dragging me into a deep, comforting sleep.

 

 

_______

 

 

I wonder about him, when he’s sleeping and I’m awake with nothing to do but inspect the features of his face, clear in the silver glow of the moonlight. Eden has several moons which provide us with the light for Training when its red sun disappears over the horizon, but I’ve never noticed how much light it provided for my house—until now.

 

He shouldn’t be sleeping here, with me. My mind is more dangerous at night than the day, the shadows playing tricks on me.

 

I will not be surprised if my last Training takes place at night. I imagine the Compulsion taking me to the edge of the stream and into the wild where Eden converges with my Nightmares.

 

My stomach twists with the thought, and I cry out, Strange Things leaking from my eyes.

 

The sound jars McCoy awake. “Jim?”

 

He turns the light on, then lightly runs his hands over my face, eyes pouring affection into mine. I want to ignore it—but the Echo tells me what it is and I don’t try to hurt him. I let him hold me, run his hands along my sides, pull me into his chest.

 

McCoy is diligent. Determined. Tender. I can’t escape from this—but he doesn’t realize the danger he’s putting himself in.

 

Echo does. Echo knows more than I do—and maybe more than McCoy.

 

I can see why Echo is drawn to McCoy. I think—I think I am, too, and my body trembles with the truth of it.

 

But Echo needs me to be strong, and so I force myself to remain still, obedient like I was for No Name, until McCoy pulls away from my cold body, looking rejected. McCoy makes a fist with one hand and sets it upon his mouth. He groans, pressing the fist into his lips until his eyes clench shut and he grimaces from the pain of bone against teeth. A single sob shakes his entire being.

 

But I ignore this. All of it.

 

Echo needs me to be strong. To not hurt him. To not expend more energy. To save us both.

 

Echo’s been hiding—but slowly, no more.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have three more chapters left to write for this story, btw. :) Thank you for reading and for your continued support!


	22. Supplemental 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers 18/19/21 (or parts, thereof). 
> 
> I’ll be double-posting tomorrow, I think! Or tonight! LOL! Stay tuned!

The Diary of Dr. Leonard H. McCoy  
Supplemental 8

 

 

.  
.  
.

 

**Entry 2.0100**

 

We’re losing him. Jim. I mean—who else is there to talk about here? Although, there is you, Nyota. You. You’ve been a light, to me and Jim, even if he doesn’t realize it, but there’s a shadow following you, too. A sadness. I’m sorry, Ny. I wish—I wish I had been able to stop you from coming, but you were so adamant about it. Christine is taking care of everyone on the ship—I know she is—but she’d trade places with you in a heartbeat. But we needed your language skills—over the medical. Doesn’t make sense—or, rather, it didn’t—but now it does. The cultural barriers limit our contact with the Denebians and slow the entire process of getting Jim out of here, as much as the disease does.

 

The disease is progressing in Jim’s mind. In his physical body. I don’t know which one is degrading faster at this point. The treatments and medications have staved off the worst of it, but the more intense he gets during Training, the more the diseases ravages him. The stronger the intensity. The more susceptible he is to other illnesses, too.

 

I go over the symptoms constantly in my head, looking for them in others. Myself. Jim.

 

Hallucinations

Fatigue

Bleeding of gums

Ear pain

Muscle weakness

Bone degeneration

Memory loss

Insanity

Violent urges

 

And in the advanced stage, the above in substantial increases as well as:

Seizures

Hoarseness of voice

Inability to swallow

Bleeding of the ears

Hair loss

Swollen tongue

Numbness of feet

If it spreads to the eyes—

 

But I can’t go there right now. It seems like I do this a lot, not talk, when that’s what these logs are for. Venting.

 

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been in the Hospital. He wakes up—and thinks he’d been in a fight hours ago. Or the day before.

 

No.

 

A month has passed, and he’s been healing as slow as a snail’s ass at the compound. We go along with it to keep him even-tempered. To keep the “prisoners” content with their lot in life. It’s easy to manipulate them like this—they lose track of time—hell, we all do here—but it’s the compassionate thing to do to keep them content. If they get violent urges—there aren’t enough security guards to stop it. So, yeah, we lie. We lie our fucking heads off.

 

So many are sick, Ny—you’ve seen it. We have an epidemic now. More are staying at the hospital, but there aren’t enough Denebian medical personnel to help them. We need Starfleet to step in—but they’re not touching this planet with a thousand light-year pole because of the Denebians’ involvement with Mudd, who is loosely linked to the Klingons. So without the Treaty with the Denebians, stepping in could start a war. The Enterprise is in dangerous territory—I guess I didn’t realize how many regulations we were breaking by sticking around until you filled me in, Ny. I hope Spock has managed to do damage control. Surveying planets is as boring as heck, as is becoming an embassy of sorts for the other species, but maybe—just maybe—we’ll make our mark here, yet and get the supplies we need down here to solve this problem—and that dilithium that was promised. They need to trust us.

 

I overheard a few talking and you should know—they think, after the mess with Khan, that we want them as slaves, and therefore the others do, too. I still don’t follow that logic. So they’d rather face this—death on their own planet—their extinction—then risk coming with us. Or accepting our help. No Name rigged the penal system—I guarantee it.

 

Speaking of No Name. He knows how bad the disease is spreading, but you can’t—you can’t even get him to flinch. No, the bastard will smile at you if you stub your toe. I think he likes seeing Jim flat on his back—Starfleet’s Golden Boy, at his beck and call.

 

The bastard.

 

You won’t get any sympathy from him.

 

But I wonder—now that I have a moment to spare, since I’m only caring for Jim, now—is No Name sick, too?

 

 

 

.  
.  
.

 

**Entry 2.0109**

 

 

I’ve been here at Jim’s home with him for just two days—and I’ve fallen in love with him all over again.

 

 

 

 

.  
.  
.

**Entry 2.0111**

 

I helped Jim brush his teeth. Rather, soothe his gums. He’s lost a molar. Another one. He can’t eat many solids. I’m blending a lot of fruit and protein into shakes. The pounds are falling off of him. The medication makes his feet swell. He can hardly walk.

 

But I’ve caught him smiling, when he watches me play with Snoops.

 

I hate to tell him—but that dog isn’t—

 

Never mind. I won’t tell him. Ny, I’m to the point where I’ll lie to his face to keep happy. That’s all I can do, right? I’m helpless here.

 

I crunch numbers, and give them to you to give to Spock. I take blood samples and send those, too. But it’s useless. I can’t see the light anymore. I can’t. I fucking can’t.

 

I’m almost ready to beg No Name for a miracle. He has to know something we don’t. For starters—like how the hell Jim got here in the first place.

 

 

.

.

.

 

**Entry 2.0300**

 

The moon looked as large as Jupiter tonight. I can’t help but look at it and hope that one day, we’ll travel beyond it again.

 

The moonlight falls across Jim’s face while he’s sleeping. He looks young, still, despite this damn disease. I admit, my mind’s on the days we’d sit next to each other in the dorm at the Academy, and on the Enterprise, and on shore leave—

 

I have a mind to kiss him.

 

 

 

.  
.  
.

 

**Entry 2.0301**

 

 

I didn’t. I didn’t touch him.

 

You know why?

 

Besides the fact that it might be testing the waters of this disease a bit too much, so much has been taken away from him—an innocent kiss stolen in the night would have been the straw that broke the camel’s back. For me, that is.

 

I can’t control a lot of what happens here, but I can control this and not take advantage of an “asset.” I’m not an animal. I don’t take advantage of someone who is mentally incapable of making a decision like this for himself. At least, not in the sense that we can.

 

I love him—but he’s not Jim right now. And as much as I hate to admit it to you, let alone myself, he’s not our Jim. He’s not acting like himself. He’s something else, entirely.

 

I won’t touch him. Not like that.

 

 

.  
.  
.

 

**Entry 2.0302**

 

But, oh, how I wish I could.

 

I’d give him my life to show him what life—and love— _felt_.

 

My very _life_.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I’m almost done writing this story—just one chapter and an epilogue left. I really hope you like where it’s going—although I know it’s hard to tell right now. ;) I appreciate everyone who is reading and sticking around for this crazy story! Hugs!


	23. 2.5 Shy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And one more for tonight! Happy reading.

Chapter 2.5  
SHY

 

 

“Do you remember anything from when you first got here, Jim?”

 

We’ve played checkers on my bed five times now. McCoy is on his side, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, and me, I’m mirroring the same posture since I feel a little stronger. I’d play for hours more, but I think he’s bored. I never tire of games, which I usually play by myself, or with a Peeker, or with Galyn, when she was in a good mood. I have nothing better to do when I’m Healing. I’ve always tried to keep my mind busy.

 

“No,” I say.

 

“You must have talked with Mudd.” McCoy slides his red chip forward.

 

 _Harry_.

 

Echo latches onto the name, wrenching it from my thoughts. I blink at McCoy— “No, It never did.”

 

He frowns. “His name upset you before—and I think it is now. Are you sure?”

 

My face grows warm. A storm builds in my chest that I’m powerless against. A need to Protect. Like with Girl. I don’t understand it, but it’s a part of me. Like Echo. I shake my head slowly, my teeth clenched tightly against the truth.

 

“Jim,” he pleads. “I know you’re lyin’ to me.”

 

The small, illogical hope I had that he’d want to stay with me—and fight for me when they Take me away—crashes down, smashed to pieces. I don’t want to lie, but I have to. I can’t let him see that it hurts—the feeling is strange. The skin of my face and neck heats even more, like I’m being burned, and I know it’s because I’m weighing another lie on my already heavy tongue, the sensation traveling down to my toes.

 

His lips twist into a bitter line at my silence. “If we knew a little more—we could possibly figure out how to help the others here.”

 

“Prisoners are property of Eden.”

 

He actually smiles. “We know. I’m talking about the other citizens on Deneb V. Children—you’ve seen them, I think.”

 

“Oh?” I ask innocently. “I’ve only stayed here.”

 

He watches me as if he knows. “Girl—she was one,” he says slowly, his eyes seeking mine. “There are others around.”

 

I swallow. Of course I’ve seen them. Hasn’t everyone?

 

“Jim. Something on your face tells me you know more than what you let on. I know that look.”

 

I clench my fingers around my next chip and stare at the board, the diamonds forming a maze—a map—in my mind, much like the corridors in the Hospital.

 

He sighs. “The place from where I come—they could help them, if I could get them there, Jim. I need a ship, too, of course, but one step at a time.”

 

McCoy’s too curious, but he knows I’ve already disabled the Peekers so we could talk freely.  
Still, Echo wants me to be quiet—he’s demanding it—

 

“Please, Jim—”

 

His begging elicits an image of what No Name could do to him. A cold chill courses down my spine. “No,” I snap from the fear I feel, and brush my hands across the board, scattering the pieces.

 

McCoy startles. “Hey,” he says softly, grasping my elbow.

 

But I pull away from him and cross my arms, hiding my trembling hands under my armpits, feeling like one of the children he speaks of.

 

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he implores. “I want you to know that I’d never purposefully hurt you.”

 

But he had. Just like I know I’ve hurt him, sometime, and fiercely, in the past.

 

I hug myself tighter, not looking at him, my heart pounding in my chest.

 

He strokes my arm and waits a moment before speaking, when Strange Things form in the corners of my eyes. “Do you feel like playing another game?”

 

“It’s tired,” I whisper, wiping a Strange Thing away with a flick of my wrist. I want him to go away. I want him to stay. I want both, but don’t know how to ask him.

 

“I can see that,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t move to leave. He stays, watching me. “I’m sorry if asking about the children upset you.”

 

“Don’t ask It about them,” my voice trembles. It’s too dangerous—but if I tell him that, it will only encourage him.

 

“Okay,” he agrees. “I won’t ask you again—at least not today.”

 

“Never.” I turn on my other side, my back towards him, imagining a wall between us. Maybe there’s one there, already.

 

He still doesn’t leave. “I won’t give up on you—or them.”

 

“Idiot,” I whisper.

 

He’s quiet after that.

 

__________

 

 

I can’t stay mad at him for long. I have to go to the bathroom after a nap, and then I’m hungry.

 

I’ve eaten more in one day than I had in a week. I graze, since he leaves me food by my bed, and water. And, once, coffee. I took an hour drinking it and didn’t care when it grew cold.

 

His smile glows later that night, when I try to remember how to brush my gums with the gel and cloth that soothes them. “I think something's working,” he boasts. “You look better. And you have gained two pounds this week.”

 

I clearly remember the plate of food I’d eaten earlier. “It is a glutton,” I mutter.

 

“You need to keep your strength up.”

 

I shrug—my muscles haven’t changed much, although he worries that they have. “First Man is not always the strongest man.”

 

His brow furrows. “Huh. I never thought about that, but you’re right.” He pauses. “Have there been other First...Men?”

 

“How would I know?”

 

He chuckles. “Jim, you may be in the dark on a lot of things, but I think you’re pulling my leg with this one.”

 

I think I should feel insulted.

 

“It’s your face,” he explains, motioning to it. “It’s written there.”

 

I frown. “How?”

 

The laughter dies in his eyes. “It’s a figure of speech. It’s not really written—just something I sense from you.”

 

I put the gel and the cloth aside. “You sense things, too?”

 

He nods. “All the time.”

 

I try to relax on the bed, and stare up at the ceiling, tapping my fingers on my breastbone.

 

Once. Then twice. Three times.

 

Like he had with me.

 

He stands beside the bed, staring down at me. I do it again. I don’t know why.

 

I do it a third time, my gaze daring to lock with his. He swallows, the lump I see in his throat moving up and down, his expression burning with affection for me that Echo wants—then doesn’t want.

 

I reach for McCoy’s wrist, but only touch it lightly. My fingers brush the inside of his wrist. His pupils enlarge as I stroke him there, the sensitive skin, and he keeps as still as the dust collecting on my dresser, my countertops, like the things I never change. I don’t want this to change between us—and I don’t like it when we argue—

 

—but I think it will have to change. I’ve betrayed him before. _Echo has._

 

My chest tightens from within, nearly causing my heart to burst—with regret. “It is sorry,” I whisper.

 

He falls to his knees beside the bed, his expression breaking—and I know he can’t fight it, either. He leans forward, and so do I, until his forehead presses against mine. We breathe as one, hearing each other’s heartbeats in the sudden silence of the room.

 

I could do this forever. If only They’d let me.

 

A lump forms in my throat. I can’t speak or I’d tell him this.

 

“Jim,” his voice breaks, his lips sliding across my face.

 

His mouth brushes against my cheek, and I close my eyes, leaning into him. Reaching for the tender kiss before it becomes one. His lips are soft, then warmth burning into my skin.

 

I want him to touch me more—I long for it like I long for freedom. More than that. They hadn’t programmed this out of me, or maybe McCoy has brought it back, but it feels forbidden. And dishonest. Hurtful. Beautiful. All of these things.

 

But deep down, this can’t be.

 

With a sudden exhale, he breaks away, and stares at me like I’m lost to him. It hurts to lose the feel of his lips, but still we entwine our hands, our fingers, and that is all, before I fall asleep.

 

He wants someone else—not me. Not me, though I think I could give him what he wants.

 

_Not me._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll post again tomorrow or the day after. I really appreciate your comments—they’ve helped inspire my muse and I can’t thank you all enough for your support! XX


	24. Supplemental 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This supplemental doesn’t cover or rehash previous Jim chapters. It’s new material altogether. Actually, the rest of the “logs” should contain new info, too. Hope you enjoy the chapter!

  
The Diary of Doctor Leonard H. McCoy  
Supplemental 9

 

 

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.  
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**Entry 2.0355**

 

Per Nyota’s request, I’m going back through the timeline before we lost Jim. Before he disappeared. She thinks I may remember something I didn’t before. I doubt it, but I’ll humor her. She’s been so helpful, and maybe she’s right.

 

It hurts to think about it, but a future without him hurts me more—and the Admiralty isn’t telling us shit. It’s either that they don’t know—or it’s just _that bad._

 

But I digress. Here’s what I know. The last time I saw him, it had been three years after we had lost Pike. He’d been the same old Jim, with a enthusiastic maturity that came with being Captain of the Enterprise. Earlier that year, after a busy six months, we’d followed orders to stop at the only starbase in the newly named Egranti I System to pick up several scientists, who we were ordered to transport to the Excelsior. Dr. Carol Marcus had been one of the scientists. Or, she was supposed to have been one of them. I think Jim found a way to meet up with her—but then she left on another ship. I never kept track of her after that. I never had reason to. Nyota, you did, but you couldn’t find her. Four months later, Jim disappeared. As did Finnegan. Jim and Finnegan weren’t on the best of terms, so none of us ruled out foul play, although authorities ruled it out. He apparently died here, in Eden, at the hands of Jim. Nyota found the hospital record.

 

That was a little over three years ago.

 

Jim had been healthy and strong, if a bit on the melancholy side. I’d been so busy, I never had a chance to ask if it was something I’d done. I hate to admit that there were times we went days without talking much, but that was life on the ship in deep space and when you were in command. He, of his ship. And me, the Medbay. When we came together that one night, I’m not sure either of us talked much at all, we were in each other’s arms, listening to each other’s heartbeats. It was the most wonderful feeling, touching him. I remember being amazed that it had even happened.

 

I look at him now—and he’s still these things. Strong. Beautiful. Resilient. Although there’s little about him that’s truly Captain Kirk. At least reflecting in his words and actions. But I have to believe he’s still in there.

 

 

 

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**Entry 2.0410**

 

While Jim was sleeping—again—I was able to speak with Nyota in the other room. She came for a visit, though I warned her not to leave the safety of the hospital. At least there she won’t be attacked by unstable “prisoners.” She’s headstrong. She said it couldn’t wait. We have new information on the environment here. The Enterprise was able to send Mr. Scott down with other supplies for those at the hospital. Mr. Scott managed to run a scan and found traces of a type of protomatter. It seems to be deep within the core of the planet and hard to detect, but it’s there.

 

Could this be what’s making everyone sick?

 

If so...our precautions won’t matter much. And no wonder Jim is dealing with more side effects. Soon we will be, too.

 

It’s only a matter of time.

 

 

 

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**Entry 2.0411**

 

Speaking of time. I lost track of it today. I woke up to find Jim beside me on the bed, staring straight at me. He was so quiet. It scared the bejesus outta me.

 

We just sat there, not talking, although I had the oddest urges...

 

But mostly I couldn’t get myself to move, Nyota. I can’t remember if we actually ate, either. Is this how Jim has felt on this damn planet all this time? For three fucking years? If so, it’s no wonder he’s so...off. And using different pronouns to talk about himself. A defense mechanism. A result of all this trauma he’s endured. I’m not convinced it’s a result of any programming.

 

Maybe you should check up on us tomorrow. If you get this message before then.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m nearly finished writing the story—the epilogue is done and part of the final chapter, Ch. 30. I was going to finish writing it all tonight but today feels like a Monday more than yesterday did, for some reason, and my brain too tired. And I’m honestly not thinking correctly or positively about anything rn—but just know that this fic is pretty much a done deal and you’ll see the last chapter posted this weekend or early next week! 
> 
> If I don’t update tomorrow it will be Thursday. Thank you so much for reading! Your comments are always greatly appreciated! ❤️ Truly, they keep me going. XX.


	25. 2.6 Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning included in the end notes as to not spoil things. Check if you’re sensitive. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 2.6  
HEAT

 

 

“Could you be happy?” I ask him while we stretch out on the grass outside my house.

 

The sun catches our faces, like we caught fireflies last night. They’re aren’t many bugs left in Eden, just small things that can fly. I didn’t even know they were fireflies until McCoy mentioned they looked like them.

 

A few weeks have passed. I’m stronger. McCoy says I gained five pounds, and then some, although he says I’m still “sick.” He thinks the sun “heals” me. But I won’t see the sun for long—the time is coming when I will face First Man.

 

McCoy turns his head to look at me, one side of his face imprinted with marks from the grass.

 

I reach out and touch the lines in his skin. Echo wants to smile, but he draws away from McCoy when I reach for him, leaving me cold. I shiver. McCoy brings me to his chest with a sweep of his arm.

 

I curl into him, head down, heart beating fast, relishing his musk with each breath.

 

“Happy?” McCoy murmurs into my hair. “What do you mean?”

 

“Happy with It?” I ask softly.

 

_With me?_

 

McCoy takes some time to answer, but I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t know how to answer, or is distracted. I’ve realized—he’s malfunctioning. He doesn’t feed me like before, or care what he is doing, or about the tools that wash his teeth and pick at his hair—or is it brush his teeth and comb his hair? I mix things up. I can’t tell time, except for when the sun rises and sets. I’m not sure how I’ll survive the next Training, but at least I have the Programmer.

 

Maybe it was a good thing I didn’t use it on Man #2.

 

McCoy has almost fallen asleep. He’s depended on me for his food today. He doesn’t listen to me like he used to. He’s easily distracted—and annoyed. I’ve also seen him glare at Snoops, so I sent the dog away. I know how to control the everyday urges to hurt things. McCoy does not.

 

A breeze touches us, prodding my mind about something else, about Nyota’s most recent visit. She told the doctor that he’s been infected—but I ignore it. Echo is upset with me because of this—I have to ignore it or the rage that is building up will consume me.

 

I clear my throat. “Could you?”

 

He sighs. “Don’t ask me that, Jim.”

 

His answer angers me—and I let it, this time. I sit up abruptly, pulling away from him. I haven’t asked him for anything. Anything. Nothing since he’s come to find me in Eden.

 

 _But I never even wanted him here,_ Echo screams silently at me.

 

“Fine,” I spit out—at him—McCoy—and at Echo—hands tightly clenched into fists at my sides. I will not hurt him, although I feel the urge to Train more and more, each day. It’s how I know—I will meet Him, First Man, soon. “Sleep alone tonight.”

 

I’ll kick McCoy out. He can be on the floor, and not under the same blanket. He can be cold and unfeeling, like me. He can be wanting and lonely, like me.

 

McCoy blinks. “Jim—”

 

“See if It cares,” I say, walking away.

 

It doesn’t care.

 

It doesn’t.

 

_It doesn’t._

 

_______

 

He finds me in an hour, after I see Snoops, listless, on the steps of my house. I sit next to the dog, and help him sit on his rump, arrange his tail, and talk to him. I tell him about my days with the doctor—until I sense McCoy beside me.

 

“I was worried I’d get sick,” McCoy says, looking down at me. “That I’d get sick, and not be able to help you anymore. Seems like I did, anyway, and….”

 

His voice fades, his expression full of Regret.

 

“But you’re diseased,” I say, because it makes sense to Echo.

 

McCoy nods.

 

I hesitate, scratching behind Snoops’ ears. “But I can’t leave him. He’s my friend.”

 

His gaze shifts to the obedient animal. “I’m sure he’ll be fine, Jim, if we want to spend some time alone upstairs.”

 

I take a second to process this. “Alone?”

 

“On the bed,” McCoy says softly.

 

My body wants to shrink away in shame from him, because Echo does, too. Echo, I remind myself, didn’t want McCoy to know he was here.

 

But I do. The bed is more comfortable with the doctor in it. I don’t know how I could even think of kicking him out, when I long for his body next to mine.

 

“Unless you really don’t want me to sleep there with you?” McCoy swallows. “I have to admit—I—Jim, I—I need you. To feel you.”

 

I stand and meet his gaze, but I don’t know what to do with someone needing me. Even if it is McCoy.

 

McCoy knows what to do. He takes my hand, leading me silently up the stairs, Echo trying to stop me. But my body demands this, my heart thudding wildly in its agreement. We reach the top of the stairs—then the bedroom—where we stand in the middle of the room, staring at each other.

 

His shoulders soften, but his eyes make me wary. His pupils have enlarged, his expression darkening with something I don’t understand.

 

I try to inch away from him—but he stops me with a hand to my elbow.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

I can’t speak.

 

His lips flicker with a grim smile. “There’s no threat here, anymore,” he murmurs, slipping his other hand around my neck while he holds me still. “Just us. Alone.”

 

I suck in a breath as he nuzzles the bare spot below my ear with his lips, eliciting a shiver down my spine. I close my eyes, barely breathing as his mouth moves against my skin like it belongs there.

 

The curve of his smile imprints onto my shoulder. “And I’m beyond caring what Jim will think of me if I do this with you,” he whispers, as if he doesn’t think I’ll hear it.

 

I’m confused again—I _am_ Jim. Echo is, too.

 

Echo tries to speak—to me, not McCoy—but I shut him out. _It_ wants this—like this—without _feeling_ remorse. To test McCoy and see if he wants _It_ —not Echo.

 

To feel wanted, no matter what It’s done—It wants that.

 

I make an agreeable noise in my throat, letting McCoy know I want this with him, whatever this other sensation is that’s leading me towards him. “It won’t matter,” I promise in a hushed voice.

 

He takes it the wrong way. “You do matter,” he replies, his reprimand sharp. “You do, Jim.”

 

I freeze, heart pounding fast in my chest. He holds me by the arms and stares, hard, at me.

 

I’m always doing something wrong. No Name told me I’m an Imbecile, and McCoy—he speaks to me as if I’m stupid, too.

 

I can’t stand the storm in his eyes. It looks like accusation. “Stupid,” I whisper, looking down at my feet.

 

“I thought that maybe you wouldn’t be able to consent to this,” McCoy mutters to himself. “But maybe I’m compromised now, too, because…”

 

He grasps my chin, stroking it with a thumb before leaning forward and kissing me on the lips, briefly—maybe even sweetly—before pulling away.

 

My longing fills me from my chest to my toes. I feel my eyes widen, Strange Things stinging the backs of them. I blink, quickly, to make them go away.

 

“Because?” I ask, confused.

 

“I can’t stop it,” he says, lips hovering beside mine. “I can’t.”

 

I exhale, my breath hot against his mouth. I struggle to take another breath, but my chest tightens, and I’m frozen.

 

“I can’t help myself, Jim,” he whispers.

 

I finally swallow, and peer up at him through my lashes.

 

He winces. “I can’t help but touch you.”

 

_It wants it too—_

 

He groans. “Dammit, I can’t…”

 

He pulls me hastily into an embrace and covers my mouth, his lips demanding, his tongue slipping into my mouth, his body pressing mine. I taste him, deeply, and cry out, every cell in my body alert to his touch.

 

“Jim,” he breathes, as his arms tighten around me until I can’t fill my lungs with air.

 

It’s a warning, but I fall deeply into what he’s offering me. I relax in his arms against the cautioning voice at the back of my mind, and allow McCoy to take over, as the disease demands it. Unsmiling, he stares at me then lifts me up into his arms and carries me to the bed.

 

He drops me so that I bounce, lightly, on my back. My chest heaves, my eyes growing wide as I stare up at him. Echo has never seen him like this before, and I can only stare, in awe. McCoy doesn’t wait for me to speak, but removes his shirt and pants, leaving only his underwear on. He has no shoes to take off. He doesn’t wear them anymore, like me.

 

Another sign, Echo whispers in my ear.

 

McCoy comes for me, next, approaching the bed in a rush, his movements harsh and jerky. He growls at me, and I fumble badly as I try to help him take my clothing off, too. My fingers get in the way, they can’t find the hem of my shirt, and he bats my fingers away. I withdraw, letting him undress me by himself. His face is serious, nothing but darkness and lust in his eyes, and I think—Echo is right. Nyota is right—McCoy is diseased.

 

And it’s ITs fault. Echo had warned IT. He had warned IT to keep them ALL away.

 

Strange Things leak from the corners of my eyes. “It is sorry,” I say.

 

He freezes.

 

“It’s sorry,” I repeat.

 

He shakes his head, as if to clear his mind, and his hands tremble above my stomach, my thighs, then clench into fists. He looks torn, as if he might back away, and leave me alone.

 

But I know better. There is no clearing of the mind, now. This disease has infected others this way. Not slowly, like me, but with a vengeance—like it has McCoy.

 

He has oil, already, like he’d planned this. I swallow, my ears roaring as I watch him rub the substance over himself. He prepares me, holding my hands above my head. “Don’t touch yourself,” he says.

 

I cannot help but obey, and I watch him. He gives a satisfied grunt, driving into me with a single thrust.

 

I squeeze my eyes in pain, and force myself to relax. It’s been so long—but Echo remembers—even though I have not felt this before. He tries to comfort me, but then thinks better of it, I think, and disappears.

 

Alone, I cling to McCoy’s back, my legs wrapped around him, my heart seeking his. I want his comfort. All of it. But something holds me back.

 

He whispers my name like an anthem, biting down on my shoulder and groaning, “Jim, Jim, oh, Jim.”

 

And then I know. I have to do this—or Echo and It will never have this last time with him. McCoy may never forgive him for his betrayal. And so I stop McCoy—determined.

 

He lifts his head, his hazel eyes confused, his expression filled with hurt.

 

“Not Jim,” I whisper, cradling his cheek with my hand. “ _It_.”

 

In his lust, McCoy cannot argue and nods, whispering, “It.”

 

I feel victorious, and give myself to him completely, as if he alone can save me. He lowers his head and pushes his cock back into my hole, this time with gentle motion, as if he’s afraid to hurt me.

 

Selfishly, I want this. Selfishly, I ignore Echo, who is miserable and seeking another hiding place, because It is winning. It—who has done terrible things, things that are shaming. Selfishly, I don’t say a word—and let McCoy’s lust and disease sweep over me and in me like a sword, severing the trust I have with Echo with each thrust.

 

McCoy strokes me as he makes love to me, his hand soft yet unyielding, always focused on bringing me pleasure. A strange feeling gathers in my groin, and my lower spine, a wretched, beautiful sensation I cannot control. The strange feeling burrows deeper inside of me, when McCoy thrusts harder into me, then faster. I’m clenched around him, filled by him.

 

It’s not enough and I arch up in longing.

 

He suddenly slows, and the feeling that had started...simply fades. I whimper, falling back restlessly onto the bed.

 

Will he make me beg?

 

He stares at me, face dark. “What does It want?”

 

There is a fluttering in my stomach. “Please,” I say hoarsely. “My name.”

 

He nods, lost in the movement once again as it builds between us. Our breaths are heavy, increasing in volume, a symphony with no end, I think.

 

“It,” he whispers, his eyes rolling up in the back of his head. “ _It_. It’s time.”

 

I see the passion on his face—for me—not Echo—and embrace it, digging my nails into his naked back. McCoy closes his eyes in bliss, coming with a shout and driving himself into me, roughly. He’s no longer in control of himself, no longer treating me with care. The world shatters, and I follow, my body unable to escape his touch, and moving in rhythm with him, as one. It lasts longer than Echo remembers, and I think—I think it’s the disease. Heightening our passion, lengthening the time that we can fuck. It feels dirty and damning, _but perfect_. McCoy pushes into me once more, satisfying himself until the very end and we’re both depleted.

 

I’m overwhelmed by the warring sensations of pain and bliss, of joy and sorrow, and bite my bottom lip to keep from crying out. I feel a keen sense of loss as McCoy slips out of me without warning. My erratic emotions eventually steady, although my ass is sore and my heart is comforted by what we’ve done, and the attention and acceptance McCoy had just given me. But liquid continues to seep from my eyes and trail down my face—I hadn’t noticed it before.

 

He drapes himself over me, exhausted, his weight like a heavy blanket. I don’t know how to breathe when he’s so close, but I’m addicted to his touch. I want to hold him, desperately hold him.

 

How could Echo have let him go?

 

I ignore the nagging reminder that he had had no choice. 

 

McCoy, unlike me, and even in his diseased state of mind—is perfect. Is contrary. Is wild. Is beautiful.

 

The spell is soon broken, and he gets up abruptly. And for a moment, while waiting for him to return, I don’t understand it at all, or what we’ve done. Had I hurt him? Or him, me? Confused, my heart races, and I grip the sheets until my knuckles grow white.

 

He doesn’t recognize my distress, but cleans us up, but barely, as if he’s forgotten what to do, and sets the towel aside. It slips to the floor, unnoticed by him, until I mention it.

 

Afterward, he climbs on the bed again and gathers me in his arms, possessively holding me to him. And I cling to him in my mind, making him mine.

 

We lay there until it is dark, skin on skin, breath to breath—broken—weary—and sated. He absently taps his fingers along my bare hip.

 

_Tap. Tap tap. Tap tap tap._

 

Too tired to respond, I lick the blood from my cracked lips, and fall asleep.

 

 

_______

 

 

I don’t know for how long we laid there, but I awaken first, feeling happy again. It is a glorious feeling, one that I want to experience longer, but the Compulsion is back. I don’t have time to spare.

 

Neither does McCoy, Echo urgently tells me.

 

I dress, and pull clothes hastily onto McCoy’s body. Groaning, I sling the doctor over both shoulders. He’s still asleep. I know he won’t wake up—he sleeps deeply each night, like I do. I’ve taken half the medication No Name gave me weeks ago, which will help me survive the next journey, and I’ve given McCoy some of the other medication, to keep him unconscious. I pocket the Programmer. I say goodbye to Snoops, who stares at me, unblinkingly.

 

I exit the door and take one last look at what has been my home for the past three years. I wonder if I’ll miss it—Echo will not. I decide I don’t care, and walk away without ceremony. This Leaving is what I’ve been waiting for, Echo reminds me.

 

My feet—and the Compulsion—will lead me to First Man. It will take me longer then if I was alone, without this new Burden, McCoy’s weight along my shoulders. But I don’t know if he will survive without me. I have to take him.

 

Besides, Echo finally told me—McCoy is diseased.

 

 _Diseased_.

 

The words sends a shiver down my spine, even though I don’t know what it means. It doesn’t sound like it’s good, but I think I can help him. Echo doesn’t answer my questions sometimes—and he won’t answer this one about McCoy.

 

I’m mad at Echo, now, for the illness in McCoy. And for hurting McCoy before, although the doctor doesn’t know what he did. I stumble, and growl at Echo, as if it is his fault, too.

 

Echo deserves to be an It, and nothing else. He deserved this hellhole. _It_ deserves this place. _It_ deserves to be banished in _Its_ pain.

 

 _You fucked up,_ I scream silently at Echo. And _It_ was brought here. To Eden.

 

Eden. It had sounded like a new beginning. A fresh start. A promise.

 

It’s only an end.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:*** MUTUAL DUBIOUS CONSENT***
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading! Kinda feel like I’m coming down with a stomach bug, so I may skip double posting tonight like I intended b/c I really want to get Ch. 30 written before posting another one. Sorry guys. I greatly appreciate your continued support!


	26. Supplemental 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vana_Valie asked for Ny’s POV. She’s in luck. :)

The Diary of Doctor Leonard H. McCoy  
Supplemental 10

 

 

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**Entry 3.0001**

 

This is Lt. Nyota Uhura speaking. I’m taking over the logs on behalf of Dr. McCoy, who is missing along with Jim. Mr. Scott cannot return to the Enterprise, as the Denebians discovered his presence and are unhappy with us. The transporter, although not in complete working order to begin with, was destroyed.

 

Spock is not answering his comms, nor is the Enterprise replying to my messages. I should note that when Mr. Scott transported here initially, the Enterprise had been surveying several of Deneb’s distant but neighboring anomalies, of which we had no previous record, since they formed and developed over the past year. The Enterprise could be out of reach or their communications disrupted.

 

I don’t know what else to do but take turns with Mr. Scott looking for the Captain and Dr. McCoy through the hospital’s front windows.

 

There are too many sick Denebians outside, wanting respite within the hospital—or to act on their more violent urges. We continue security as before. No one—not even the head nurse—wants to let them in for fear we would only be letting our own murderers inside.

 

I’d like to help treat the ones who are in the beginning stages, but Mr. Scott has reminded me we are the only ones well enough and with the means to communicate with our ship. Neither do have a way to test them safely.

 

We’ll have to try to wait things out.

 

 

 

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.

 

**Entry. 3.0002**

 

Mr. Scott thinks he can procure a ship he can try to fix if we barter a few medical supplies with a the healthier Denebians. They don’t want to leave—they’ve told us about the promise they were given for a better future on their planet. I’m not sure who promised them. They aren’t talking, and we have no record of this from Starfleet.

 

I fear that Starfleet’s involvement in this has been blown out of proportion. Either Spock hasn’t been truthful, or someone hasn’t spoken honestly on behalf of the Admiralty. But why?What do they need to hide that they would risk thousands of lives, including ours?

 

 

.  
.  
.

 

**Entry 3.0030**

 

None of the Androids are working as they had before, and we are unable to decrypt their current programming. This has deeply disturbed Mr. Scott. Without the androids, the Denebians are burying their families themselves. Their burial lines go on over the hills. We hear their mourning wails at all hours of the day.

 

With no other way to procure food, and the robots useless, we are relying on outdated replicators for our own food and other supplies. So far, we’ve had sufficient provisions with rationing.

 

I have had no word from Dr. McCoy or the Enterprise.

 

.  
.  
.

**Entry 3.0055**

 

The patients here are worsening, and I’m administering more sedatives to keep them at peace, both physically and mentally. And to let us sleep. I don’t know what else to do. I’ll continue to feed these entries to McCoy’s comm in the hopes that the entries will cure the insanity stripping his mind of clarity. Or at least influence him to come back with the captain.

 

Mr. Scott and I—we won’t go anywhere until we’ve heard word from our friends.

 

 

.  
.  
.

 

**Entry 3.0100**

 

We show no signs of the disease, which, thanks to Mr. Scott’s insistence, we have unofficially named the Mudd Sickness.

 

Harry Mudd has a daughter, who owned the ship we confiscated before the Khan incident, and which we used to take to Qo’noS. Mudd told the authorities he doesn’t know where she is. It’s impossible for him to tell the truth. She could be here—hidden, safely away, somewhere. Or dead. I’ve been told he had a “visitor” prior to his escape from their “prison” here and distress call.” It could have been her, but there’s no guarantee. I’m apt to believe she has been far from this planet as possible—I’m sure she was smarter than to stick around and risk being imprisoned herself.

 

This tragedy— and who knows what else—is their legacy.

 

I can’t bear to look outside, anymore, but it’s my duty to be aware of my surroundings for the others’ sakes. Mr. Scott can’t do it alone. There is no real threat that the Denebians will breach the security system. Still, we continue to follow all protocols and sleep in shifts.

 

I fear that Jim and Dr. McCoy are dead, but I won’t relay this to Mr. Scott. We’ll continue as ordered until help comes. I can’t imagine that the Enterprise has forgotten about us. Spock will have had good reason for not contacting me.

 

I took the time today to inventory our supplies. Given the number of sick persons we are caring for, and what’s left of our supplies after bartering for a ship, we can live here for seven, maybe eight, more weeks. After that, either Mr. Scott will have to fix the ship—or we will be on our own.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I’m feeling up to it again I’ll post later tonight. Thank you!


	27. 2.7 Listen

Chapter 2.7  
LISTEN

 

 

 

I walk for hours, but even with McCoy unconscious, I’m not alone as I think I am. Although hundreds have died and possibly thousands, and the land holds little to nothing of value for them, the Denebians come out of their homes, seeking what they’ve been promised. New life, Echo tells me. And an end to the disease that plagues me and McCoy and now them. A hope for a New World.

 

That has been the Siren’s call keeping them under someone’s thumb. The same thumb that has kept Us here, Echo whispers.

 

There are a few with fully ravaged minds, but most show only the early signs of the disease. Echo urges me on, however. Although there is still time left for them, there is not much for us.

 

The Denebians behave like a flock of birds, wandering inside and outside of Eden in various states of physical and mental health, wanting to speak to me, as if I hold the answers they’re looking for. Echo looks away from them, but not because he’s repulsed. He’s saddened. Grieved. Ashamed, just like he is of me.

 

I don’t know why they seek me out—I can’t show them empathy or offer kindness, like Echo could. I can’t fathom why—don’t they remember I’m the one with blood on my hands, the one who has killed to move up in the ranks? Why aren’t afraid of who I am? They should be—they know what I’ve done and would do to get ahead. Instead, they trail behind me. They inch closer in their naive faith, asking me questions which I can’t answer.

 

I don’t look like Echo did when he first came here. I’ve changed. My hair, darker, longer, and limp. My face, leaner, a ghost of who I was. My body, stronger yet thin in malnourishment. My memories of an earlier time, suppressed. McCoy thinks the disease is weakening me—he is mistaken.

 

It’s this paradox of the disease that enables me able to Train—and something else.

 

The Programming.

 

No Name has had something to do it—and Others. Soon, McCoy will understand, although I don’t want him to. “I” don’t want to understand, but Echo can’t keep hiding.

 

The Denebians continue to slow my progress down, McCoy growing heavier along my back as I stop to talk with them. I don’t have much time left and I decide to take a detour to avoid coming in contact with more of them. But, first, I tell them to go to the Hospital, but not inside. I tell them to be careful and wait for help. I warn them not to harm the people there—that Help will come—or I will find them and take my revenge.

 

I ask them to be willing to leave for Help, if I don’t Win.

 

I don’t know if what I say is the truth, but Echo forces me to relay these things. I’m mad at him afterwards, resentful, even, that he knows so much, and block him from my thoughts. Echo is smart, but he also put me here. I’m in Eden because of Him. It’s his fault this has happened. _His_ fault, not mine. Everything is Echo’s fault, but why am “I” being punished for it?

 

I’m irritated now. Echo is a Burden—just as McCoy has become a Burden. I’ll have to awaken the doctor and tell him that he has to walk the rest of the way, without causing me trouble.

 

If he doesn’t listen, Echo will have no say in what I do in retaliation. The End is too important and nothing will stop me from getting there.

 

McCoy groans when I set him down at the base of the tree. His face shines with sweat—if we were still at my house, he’d need me to take him to the Hospital for a Cleansing. The tables have turned, but I have even more limited resources than he does. Neither can we return.

 

His eyes flutter open. “Jim?”

 

I get straight to the point. “You have to walk. It can’t carry you anymore.”

 

He looks around sleepily. There is nothing but trees here, a forest that hides us, and the sun. I can’t have anyone following me. Not where I am going. It seems that I’d been right—I’ll be Training in darkness.

 

“McCoy. It is serious.”

 

He snorts, shifting his body so that his back is against the tree. “You’re telling me, you’ve been carrying me all the way here? Wherever here is,” he mutters.

 

“It has to Train. You’re making me tired.” I pick up a stick that will help him walk, tearing off a few of the smaller branches from it.

 

He sighs. “What’s the point?”

 

I freeze, and look at him. “What’s the point?” I repeat.

 

“Yeah,” he whispers running his hands over his face. “We’re both dying, Jim. There is no antidote—no one is coming to get us.”

 

No one has to get us. But he doesn’t understand this.

 

Echo is frustrated—and so am I. “It is everything.”

 

“We should just try to live our last days comfortably—instead of you killing again,” he argues. “I hate seeing you like this. I don’t want to watch you kill a man, for God’s sakes, Jim!”

 

I stare at him. Is this what hurt does? Does it prick your heart until it bleeds? I throw the stick down at his feet. “Here.”

 

His gaze falls on it. “Why?”

 

I don’t want to discuss it, but Echo would want him to know. “I have to meet with First Man.”

 

His brow furrows. “Meet with—sounds different then “kill.” Not sure why ya botherin’ to sugar coat it.”

 

It sounds different—because it is different. A revelation that comes to me as Echo takes over more of my mind.

 

I shrug. “Does it?”

 

“I’m not going.”

 

I close my eyes and clench my jaw. “You’re going.”

 

“No.” McCoy kicks the stick away. “There isn’t any point.”

 

“Get up.” I scowl as I turn away.

 

“No.”

 

I stop in my tracks, tension running up my spine and across my shoulders. They ache from carrying McCoy. I should rest, like McCoy, but I can’t afford to. “Now,” I demand.

 

“Make me.”

 

Time is slipping through our hands like sand—soon all will be lost in the shadows here. Echo swings around and points his finger at him. “You’re going, Commander. That’s an order!”

 

McCoy’s mouth drops open. “J-Jim?”

 

“Get up, Commander,” Echo snarls at the doctor.

 

McCoy puts his hands up in a non-threatening manner. “Jim,” he breathes out.

 

“Not Jim,” I snap. “ _It._ ”

 

McCoy swallows. “Okay. Okay.”

 

“Now,” I grit out through clenched teeth.

 

“I wish I knew why you were doing this.” He takes the walking stick and gets to his feet, watching me cautiously. “That was Jim. The part of you that is the Captain. I knew you were in there, somewhere.”

 

I jerk my head towards east. “Let’s go, unless you want to die here, alone,” I say testily.

 

He lifts his chin. “No. I won’t go unless you do something for me, this time.”

 

“What?” I huff.

 

“Listen to these.” He holds out his comm.

 

“These?”

 

“Messages.”

 

I look at him blankly.

 

He sighs. “Logs, Jim. I’ve kept a personal diary since coming here.”

 

I stare at the comm. It’s foreign to me—but not Echo. Still, we refuse to take it.

 

“They could be clues,” he continues. “Maybe. I don’t know, but they might help us. They may help you figure out how to get us off this planet.”

 

My jaw firms. “That’s stupid.”

 

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Just like this fool errand of yours to meet with First Man is a stupid one.”

 

“It’s the _End_ —we _have to go_ ,” I insist.

 

McCoy’s mouth thins. “If I agree, can you just trust me, Jim?” he pleads. “Like I’m trusting you?”

 

For a moment, I hear nothing over the pounding of my heart, the indecision of trust. Trust is _pain_. “It is not sure,” I whisper.

 

“Listen to them. Know what I know—help me understand—help us both to—and then I’ll follow you to the End.”

 

I flinch, but I consider his request. I can’t tell McCoy what I know _now_. He makes me real. He makes me alive—and Echo want to live again.

 

I’m struck by McCoy’s emotion. His heart. Everything about him, even what I don’t know.

 

But I have to be careful. I may have breath—I may want to save him, too—but I don’t connect with him like Echo used to. Our fear keeps him at arm’s length. Fear of disappointment. Rejection. Interest. Trust.

 

Love wants to protect McCoy from both the future—and from me. From what Echo has done and why he is the only one left to fix it.

 

I shake my head, determined. “We have to go.”

 

“Wait,” McCoy whispers, stepping closer.

 

I stare into his eyes, the warmth of them mystifying me, the paleness of his skin terrifying me. He has the disease and will die if I don’t press on. “We don’t have time. You’re sick.”

 

“I think that sedative you gave me helped,” he accused.

 

I wince. “Sorry.”

 

He looks down at the comm. “Take it, Jim. Listen to them. I can’t get it to work otherwise—not sure I remember how to—but you can listen.”

 

_The disease._

 

I hold out my hand, yet I hesitate.

 

“For me?” he pleads one last time.

 

I don’t know if it’s the Disease speaking for us, twisting my mind, or Echo’s strong sense of curiosity, or McCoy’s earnest drawl, but I take the communicator.

 

And I listen.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Finally—I’ve been anxious to get to this part, where you all find out everything has actually been in Jim’s “It” persona’s POV. Bones’s logs were for “his” sake, although I’ve been feeding them to you for awhile. So, in a sense, as you’ve been reading the entries, he’s been listening. 
> 
>  
> 
> I’ll be posting two chapters back-to-back sometime tomorrow, most likely. Then the final two on Sunday. I’ve been trying to figure out how to work my final four updates and this seems to be the best way to keep the flow of the story—plus get it all posted this weekend. I did finish writing it, so it’ll make for quicker updates.


	28. Supplemental 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first of two posts today. This is also in Ny’s POV.

The Diary of Doctor Leonard H. McCoy  
Supplemental 11  
  


 

 

.  
.  
.

 

 

**Entry 2.0203**

 

Mr. Scott looked out the window this afternoon to see hundreds more Denebians setting up camp in the grass. I estimated they’ve set up two hundred tents and counting. They’ve even started building small campfires and are huddling around them for warmth as the sun goes down.

 

They look like refugees.

 

They _are_ refugees.

 

Only a handful have come to the door of the hospital. In their state of mind, I—we—expected more. But there hasn’t been a threat of violence or breach in security yet. I don’t understand it. I don’t know what brought them here—or what is keeping them away. But something, or someone, is.

 

I have a feeling it has something to do with Jim and McCoy—and that gives me hope.

 

 

 

.  
.  
.

 

 

**Entry 2.0307**

 

Mr. Scott found a way to replicate supplies by taking the parts of several replicators and making a large one, reprogramming it. So far, we’ve handed out one hundred blankets, five hundred meals, and several dozen medical kits which included basic things such as thread, needles, antiseptic, and bandages.

 

I wish we could do more, but we have to be careful with the rest of the medical supplies on hand. They must be saved for more dire cases, or for those patients who are suffering from the final stages of the disease.

 

Now that we are helping, the Denebians seem to trust us. They’ve also been more forthright concerning their expectations with Starfleet. It appears as if “operatives”—their words—demanded use of their planet almost four years ago, just months before Jim landed here. They thought their planet would survive the ongoing struggle between available natural resources and their demands for advanced technology, but whatever experiment the operatives were conducting, it further damaged this delicate balance. And ultimately failed.

 

We also know, now, that Mudd had promised them dilithium in return for their cooperation with the operatives. Mudd failed to fulfill his part of the agreement and was therefore sentenced to serve time in prison. We don’t know why, but his sentence was changed to become a death sentence. When Mudd did not accept the Denebian judgement, Jim, who was already here, took his place. But Mudd never left—he stayed on for years, until he managed to send a distress signal. I still don’t think that’s all there is to it—but that’s the story we’ve pieced together so far.

 

Since the incident with the Vengeance, the crew of the Enterprise has been fully informed about Section 31 and their dark agenda. Captain Kirk had been adamant we understand the organization which had violated Starfleet’s code of honor and ravaged its banner of peace.

 

Now, we are worried that the Denebian situation is connected to a past Section 31 operation. Yet why Jim is involved here, cooperating with this strange penal code, still makes no sense to us. He knows more about Section 31 than us, obviously, but he wouldn’t risk his crew or abandon us without a word, even if they had blackmailed him.

 

But—he must have had a reason, a pressing reason, for risking his life.

 

Captain—we have faith in you. Despite what has happened, and who you’ve become in Eden, you’re still Jim. You’re still _him_. And we depend on you.

 

 

 

.  
.  
.

 

**Entry 2.0309**

 

Lieutenant Norman surprised us by landing in a small ship from the Enterprise. But he is not the friendly man that we remember. I can’t help but think he’s somehow in league with the Denebian officials—and Section 31.

 

He informed us he was an android, and had been ordered to stop us from helping the planet. We were unable to defend ourselves—he came at us with a phaser, having killed the pilot and copilot and the rest of the crew. He has sequestered both Mr. Scott and myself inside the laundry room of the hospital. He let me keep my comm as I still have no way to contact the Enterprise—he reprogrammed the ship’s communication systems, which is why we’ve lost contact.

 

Dr. McCoy, anyone, if you hear this, please. Please help us. I fear for the lives of the Denebians, who will have no one left to but trust Lt. Norman, the very man who has betrayed us.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please, review? ❤️


	29. 2.8 Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post later, but I’m afraid the day will get away from me. This is the second update for the day—make sure you read the other one first!
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks, again, to junker5 & diamondblue4 for their edits and comments. And all of you, readers, who have been so encouraging along the way! 
> 
>  
> 
> I feel like I’m squeezing my eyes shut and jumping off a cliff by posting this ending. Geez! LOL. I hope you like it!

Chapter 2.9  
REVELATION

 

 

The messages don’t make much sense to me, but as I quietly listen to them, Echo has a fit. I can’t let him out yet—he knows this but fights, anyway—so when I get to the day we left the hospital, I begin to walk. McCoy trails behind me in bitter confusion.

 

McCoy drags his stick along, breathing heavily. “Jim.”

 

He doesn’t understand—these entries of his change nothing.

 

“Talk to me.”

 

His voice speaks to a place deep in my heart, and I slow my pace, pausing the logs—I may not want to listen to these, but now that I am, Echo won’t allow me to be negligent. “We have another mile to go before we get there.”

 

“And where, exactly, are we going?”

 

I shake my head—if I start answering his questions now, we’ll never get there—and start the logs again. They resemble diary entries, especially when they get to McCoy’s personal feelings on Echo. And even I am more embarrassed than curious to be listening to them.

 

Echo remembers the medical logs Dr. McCoy would make. These are nothing like those, but they hold my interest. I feel like I’m watching pieces of Echo come together.

 

But I’m not sure I like it. Echo isn’t, either.

 

“Jim, a little help?” McCoy asks, breathlessly from behind me.

 

I stop because, this time, he sounds like he’s in distress. I turn around to find McCoy, kneeling on one knee, supporting himself with the stick in the opposite hand. Sweat trickles over the dirt and grime on his face. He’s exhausted—his feet swollen and body shaking. I’m pushing him into Training when he’s clearly not ready. Because I know I can’t face First Man alone. I’ll need McCoy, too.

 

He shakes his head, eyes to the ground. “Don’t think I can do this, Jim,” he whispers.

 

“It can’t leave you here.” I grab him under his arms and pull him up. He staggers, then sinks back into my chest. I let him lean against me, allowing him to catch his breath and wipe his face.

 

He gives a dark chuckle. “ _It can_.”

 

“It won’t.” Echo would hate it.

 

I throw one of his arms around my shoulders despite his protests.

 

“It can,” McCoy argues.

 

“No.”

 

“Leave me—you can get there faster.”

 

“Move,” I order him.

 

“Yes, sir,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s mocking me—or something else.

 

We make slow progress, slower, still, as I turn on the comm again.

 

McCoy knows now to be quiet, but the terrain is too rough for me to be helping him like this, and we trip over roots several times. Cursing, McCoy tries to walk on his own. Stubborn, Echo says to me. I agree.

 

We go a tenth of a mile, if that, when Nyota’s voice sounds clearly to our ears and begins the last recordings.

 

“Wait a minute, Jim,” McCoy slurs out.

 

He steps away from my grasp and takes the comm from me, rewinding the message. “I haven’t heard this.”

 

As the message replays, we stare at each other.

 

I remember Norman—his eyes always bothered me. It’s unfortunate they thought they could trust him.

 

“Oh, shit,” he breathes out.

 

I pull out the rest of the medicine No Name had given me—and give McCoy most of it. He needs it if we are to continue on. He’s too out of it, too worried about his friends to notice until he feels the prick.

 

Before he can spit out his irritation, I grab his arm. “Stop wasting time, Commander. Your friends’ lives are at stake. Let’s go.”

 

“We’re going back?” He looks relieved.

 

It’s dusk, and night is beginning to crawl to life around us. I can barely make out the sprawling form beyond the trees, ahead of us in the dimming light. “We can’t go back.”

 

“What?” he asks, incredulously. “You heard Ny—lives are at stake—we can help them.”

 

I look back at him, but I don’t care what he thinks. “It wasn’t part of Echo’s plan.”

 

This catches his attention. He stares at me, his eyes dark and searching. “Echo?”

 

I nod.

 

His eyes flash with fury. “Echo’s plan?”

 

I quake inside despite my newfound confidence. He grits his teeth and pauses, watching me carefully, probing at me with his darkening gaze as if trying to uncover the rest of our secrets.

 

“Echo had a plan this entire time?”

 

“Yes,” I say, my voice small.

 

His gaze flickers towards the compound barely visible in the moonlight. He looks so deep in thought I think I’ve lost him again to the disease, but then he lifts his head, fiercely clenching his jaw.

 

He is mad, I realize. But not at me—at Echo.

 

Echo makes me take a step back. I take another by choice, putting as much distance as I can between me and a diseased—and frustrated—McCoy. “Don’t hurt It,” I whisper.

 

My heart pounds as I wait, sensing Danger from him—but soon his gaze unexpectedly softens. I don’t know what he’ll think, now that I’ve told him this small but very important detail, and still he appears somewhat angry. I hope that he will understand, that he will be the doctor we know him to be. If he doesn’t—Echo’s plan won’t work.

 

He looks ashamed now, and breathes out harshly through his nose. “I won’t hurt you.”

 

I didn’t realize my hands were shaking and hide them behind my back. I clasp them together, twisting my fingers awkwardly to keep them from trembling.

 

“I won’t—I promise,” he says. “I’m sorry if it seemed that way. I realize—I shouldn’t be surprised you think that of me that, after...after last night.” He grimaces, his voice drifting off into a whisper. “I suppose we should talk about that sometime.”

 

I nod meekly.

 

“But not now.” He sighs, softening his gaze more. “Just tell me what, pray tell, was Ji—Echo’s—plan?”

 

I’m relieved he understands, but I can’t afford to be caught off guard like this again. I steel myself from feeling sorry for him and Echo, and start to walk. “First Man,” I grumble. “It needs to talk to him—and you’re making It late.”

 

 

 

___________

 

 

 

I’m not surprised that the guards have abandoned the compound. Nor am I shocked the door is unlocked, although McCoy seems to be. He seems to be upset about the existence of the building itself.

 

But no one knew to look here—and anyone left alive had already headed for the hospital. We’re alone.

 

Mostly.

 

No Name greets us once we’re inside. He takes one look at me, then McCoy, and starts to laugh. “If it’s any consolation, I never thought you’d survive this long, Kirk.”

 

This information doesn’t comfort me—or prove difficult to hear. _I feel nothing_. “Where is He?”

 

“Still alive, if you’re wondering.”

 

“Echo didn’t doubt he’d live.”

 

No Name hums. “Hmmm, I’m not surprised you’ve split personalities as a result of the disease and the programming. The strongest man wouldn’t have survived this much emotional pain, Man #2.”

 

I grit my teeth. I don’t want to discuss this with McCoy here to listen. “Take It to him.”

 

No Name shrugs. “It’s your funeral.”

 

I follow No Name down the corridor, but McCoy grips my elbow, slowing me down. “He’s not First Man?” he whispers.

 

I shake my head.

 

“Then, who? You’ve met him before, right?”

 

We reach the elevator before I can answer—No Name waves us in. None of us talk while it operates, and we soon arrive on the third floor—where the time has come for Echo to meet his Demon.

 

No Name and McCoy step out and look back at me, expecting me to follow. But Echo is hiding again. Foolish Man, I seethe at him.

 

He won’t come back—not until he knows it’s safe for him. It’s up to me, like always. He’s abandoned me—again.

 

“You’re a Coward,” I accuse Echo softly.

 

McCoy looks at me, confused. “Jim?”

 

I exhale harshly. “Give It a minute.”

 

“It doesn’t have a minute,” No Name says coolly. “It doesn’t have any time to waste, actually. And neither does your Echo. I’ve waited long enough—and so—” No Name unlocks, then opens the thick, heavy door “—has He.”

 

First Man stands in the light, but there is hardly anything recognizable in him, just like there is hardly anything left of Echo.

 

McCoy stumbles back when he sees him, his eyes widening in shock. “Jesus—fucking—Christ, Jim—”

 

The tall, thin, and now even thinner, man ignores the outburst and stares at me as if he’s seen a ghost. “You—you survived,” he croaks. “How?”

 

I swallow hard. I don’t know what to say. I am a ghost of the man I was—but he is a ghost as well, in Echo’s friends’ eyes. He isn’t as strong, not after what the ones here have done to him.

 

No Name smiles. “Now that’s a story to tell.”

 

“Fuck, Jim,” McCoy says, blinking at First Man. “Why the hell is he here?”

 

I finally recover. “You have the antidote?” I ask First Man. Why else had the Compulsion lead me here?

 

“Yes,” comes the weary answer We’ve been waiting for.

 

“I need it,” I say, walking up to him. “ A lot of it.

 

First Man hands me the vial. “There’s enough here for two people, and a sample to make more,” he says with effort. “I have more processing in the other room—but it will take several more days before the batch is ready.”

 

I wrap my fingers around it, staring at the liquid in the vial that will make me well. That will make McCoy well. “I need a syringe.”

 

“Don’t you want to see?” First Man asks me softly.

 

Strange Things sting the backs of my eyes. I squeeze my eyes tightly and shake my head.

 

“It was our bargain, remember,” First Man prods me. “I uphold mine—and you, yours.”

 

I wonder why he’s so adamant about showing me, when he has no honor to share with humans.

 

“No,” I say through my clenched teeth. “Not yet. A syringe, please.”

 

“What? You’re going to trust him?” McCoy asks incredulously.

 

“Yes,” I say.

 

“Not on your fucking life, Jim,” McCoy snarls. “How can you even think about trusting him?”

 

“Bones,” Echo snaps. “We have no choice. Do it.”

 

McCoy’s mouth clamps shut. He stares at me. “I don’t understand.”

 

I swallow, my mind tormented. “I know.”

 

“He tried to kill us,” McCoy pleads.

 

I close my eyes. “Please, Bones,” Echo whispers, his voice breaking. “It’s the antidote.”

 

“You heard him,” No Name says cheerily.

 

“Goddamn it, Jim—Echo—” McCoy breathes out, stumbling into a chair. He lowers his head into his hands. “Tell me why, at least?”

 

First Man answers instead of Jim.

 

“I’ve sacrificed half my crew for this failed project, that’s why.” First Man glares at No Name and finds two syringes in a drawer in the cupboard behind him.

 

“It’s true,” No Name confirms. “Thirty odd souls, cremated.”

 

I stare at First Man. “It is sorry.”

 

And It is truly sorry. First Man’s crimes were his alone. His crew was innocent.

 

First Man narrows his eyes at me, then looks at McCoy, who is staring at us in continued disbelief.

 

But the disease has worn McCoy down, as has the trek here. He can’t protest. He can only obey—our lives are already at stake.

 

“Twenty milliliters,” First Man says tersely to McCoy, also giving him a pair of gloves.

 

Wordlessly, McCoy slips on the gloves, then takes the vial and the syringe. He eases the liquid out with practiced care, then starts towards me.

 

I back up. “You first.” When McCoy hesitates, I add, “It’s only logical.”

 

McCoy nods, and injects himself with it.

 

I’m next.

 

I don’t want to be.

 

I don’t deserve to live.

 

“Jim?”

 

I’m shaking. The Strange Things start to fill my eyes. I can’t stop them.

 

“What’s going on?” McCoy says quietly.

 

“Kirk,” First Man says.

 

He comes to stand beside me.

 

I stare at my feet, my heart pounding thunderously in my ears. I don’t know what to do. I’m confused—Echo is confused—we are both so very lonely and scared. I feel very, very small.

 

I need to make myself smaller.

 

“It,” I whisper.

 

“Oh, Jim,” McCoy whispers.

 

“It?” First Man repeats, his head bending low as his eyes seek out mine.

 

“His...his personality,” McCoy explains quietly. “It split.”

 

“A coping mechanism,” First Man murmurs, narrowing his eyes on me. “Interesting.”

 

I look away, unable to meet anyone’s gaze. “It doesn’t deserve—”

 

“—to live? Don’t tell me you really are a coward, after all,” First Man accuses me. “Don’t tell me you’ve done all of this—sacrificed yourself—and my people—my _family_ —for nothing,” he begins to rage. “Don’t tell me you’ve become a sniveling, cowardly Starfleet officer—your Admiral Pike would be so very disappointed, if he were alive—”

 

My head snaps up. “Don’t you ever say his name again,” Echo snarls at him, drawing himself up to his full height. “Ever. Do you understand? You don’t deserve the breath it takes to speak it.”

 

“There you are.” First Man smiles triumphantly. “Am I speaking to Kirk—or this other being?”

 

McCoy injects me with the antidote while I’m distracted. Echo twists his head and growls at him. “Stop it.”

 

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. “Stop being a baby.”

 

Echo’s breath hitches, anger and sorrow and regret beating inside Our chest, all at once, and when I search for Echo and can’t find him, I know I’ve been abandoned.

 

He’s fled—he’s left me to face this next part alone.

 

“Echo isn’t here,” I hiss at First Man.

 

First Man’s eyes flicker. “Fine. Are you ready? You’re wasting time—more will die if we don’t take care of my end of the bargain first.”

 

I can’t confirm that I’m ready—but neither can I say no for the reasons he just said. “It—” I falter. I look back at McCoy, but not for the reasons he thinks.

 

“ _It_ is ready,” McCoy says, coming beside me. “I’ll go, too.”

 

I don’t want him to—Echo doesn’t want him here—but I’ve lost my words again, emotion clogging my throat.

 

First Man nods. “Fine.”

 

We walk to the other side of the room, leaving No Name by the door. I don’t trust him, but that concern will have to wait. I have to focus on what’s ahead, for Echo’s sake. I force my gaze away from him and to the rows of drawers that fill the wall.

 

McCoy begins to count them.

 

First Man’s jaw tightens. “They’re all there.” He pauses. “Some empty…”

 

“Some?”

 

“Half my crew died these past few years, during the experiments, as we tried to stop their disease progression. A few are chained—” First Man stops and glares back at No Name. “—in the other room, recuperating.”

 

“I’m sorry,” McCoy says, and he actually does look sorry.

 

First Man turns to me. “But yours…”

 

“Yours?” McCoy repeats. He looks at me, brow furrowed. “What does he mean. Yours?”

 

First Man’s brow raise. “You still haven’t told him?”

 

I shake my head. “Echo hasn’t.”

 

“I see.” First Man reaches out and pulls out one of the bottom drawers. “She didn’t survive. I’d offer my condolences, but you—or, Echo, rather—already know my feelings on the matter.”

 

I stare down at the cyrotube holding her.

 

She’s pale and still and cold—but she can’t feel anything—Echo reminds me. She’s gone.

 

McCoy stares into the tube, his face growing ashen. “Dr. Marcus? Dead?”

 

Strange Things leak down my face. Although Echo did not love her like McCoy, he still cared. “You preserved her.”

 

First Man nods. “Yes. A promise is a promise.”

 

“Didn’t think you’d keep it,” I mumble.

 

“Well, I didn’t, either, but I didn’t think you’d survive and, yet, here you are.” He’s asking me how Echo did it—but I can’t answer for him. Someday, they will know.

 

“Jim?” McCoy asks, as he inspects the tube.

 

I close my eyes, briefly. I know what he sees. She was put inside, naked. There’s no stopping him from finding out, now.

 

There is a long silence. When I open my eyes, McCoy tears his gaze from the cryotube and looks at me, then at First Man. “She—she had a cesarean,” he says. “She was pregnant.”

 

I stare down through the glass at what McCoy discovered with his physician’s eye—a red, jagged line etched across the stretched skin of Dr. Marcus’s lower abdomen.

 

My stomach clenches. Even before I look up at First Man, I know what’s next.

 

Echo knows.

 

McCoy knows—he knows because he’s looking at me now—his eyes sad—and full of pity—

 

And neither Echo nor McCoy can bear it.

 

I bear it for them, in the only way I know how. “Where?” I ask First Man in monotone. “Tell It where.”

 

First Man thins his mouth and pulls out the drawer next to it.

 

A smaller cyrotube—a much smaller one—is inside. With a label.

 

_David James Kirk_

 

“Oh, my God,” McCoy breathes out, his fingertips pressing into the glass, his head bent low as he stares into it. “I can’t believe—what—how?”

 

The doctor wants to take it out—he’s worried what the process will do to such a small Thing, Echo whispers in my ear—he tells me McCoy isn’t mad, not yet—but very, very worried—but I look away.

 

I can’t see what’s in there. It can’t.

 

_It can’t._

 

“Dead?” I whisper, already resigned.

 

“Look,” First Man prods softly. “He was just a few hours old. He’s _still_ just a few hours old, even after three years.”

 

Him? A boy?

 

_Echo—and It—is crushed._

 

“Dead,” I repeat, already turning away, mourning. Already repulsed by myself, by Echo, and our failure.

 

Walking aimlessly about the room, I grip my hair with both hands, pulling at it, a scream tearing at my throat. Echo should feel this horrible pain—but no, he forces _It_ to feel like he’s dying, instead. I bite my lip until it bleeds, and berate myself silently, and alone.

 

The baby is dead dead dead like me

 

 _This is what It gets,_ I think, tears streaming down my face. _Echo fucked up. It fucked up—and there is so much pain—everyone is in so much pain—it’s His fault, but he had no choice—no choice no—_

 

McCoy’s hand grips my wrist, tightly. He’s left the tube to find me. He’s left Echo’s dead child—I stiffen, my heart caught in my throat.

 

“Jim, Echo, _It_ —whoever you are right now— _listen_ to me,” McCoy pleads.

 

“Why?” I choke out, afraid. Sad. _Terrified_. I don’t know what he’ll do to me or Echo, now that he knows. I can’t make sense of what’s next. Echo can’t. It can’t. Everything feels hopeless—the small Thing died and it’s Our fault—why can’t he understand that? “What’s the use?” I throw back at him, remembering our walk in the forest.

 

“Please,” McCoy begs. “Trust me one more time—like I trusted you. You brought me here, didn’t you? You made me come here—to help him. I know you did. And that’s what I’ll do.”

 

I look back at him, nervous and wary, anguish keeping me from speaking. Echo can’t take this and thinks I can—but It can’t, either.

 

“But Echo’s son... _he’s dead,_ ” I whisper brokenly.

 

Strange Things fill the doctor’s eyes, spilling over. “Not dead,” he whispers. “Jim, I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, wondering about the fate of your child this entire time—but please, believe me.”

 

I don’t know how to believe him. If I even have the strength to live, anymore.

 

“I promise you,” he tells me with a gentle, crooked smile, a smile that Echo doesn’t deserve. “His son— _your son_ —is alive.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters left...posting them tomorrow or Monday. I’m not sure what anyone will think of all this—but I’m hoping the journey was worth it. ❤️ It was so hard not to give away too many clues b/c I really wanted things to be a surprise! I’m pretty sure the next updates will wrap things up for everyone. Thank you for reading!
> 
> (Yes, First Man is Khan. I was so happy when Redford guessed it a few chapters back... Khan is not here by choice, BTW. Just to make that clear, too.)


	30. 2.9 Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this, and then a “chapter” that is dedicated to an extra long author’s note. I’ve never done that before, but I figured it would help. Also, please remember and take in consideration that this entire story is in Jim’s “It” persona’s POV, which dictates what info is revealed, and how, etc. In Its mind, Jim is “Echo.” Jim/Echo is also one stubborn SOB in this story and hides—a lot—although he does have his moments.

Chapter 2.9  
ESCAPE

 

 

So much has been unclear to me these past few years, even life and death, and where one ends and the other begins. My ordered yet chaotic life is breaking. Echo has seen to that, turning everything I knew inside out.

 

I blink at McCoy. Had I heard him right?

 

“Alive?” I choke out, unwilling to believe it.

 

“Yes, Jim,” McCoy says, easing his grip on my arm. “I wouldn’t lie to you. You have to see for yourself.”

 

This, Echo has told me, repeatedly. _Trust McCoy_. I let him lead me back to the tiny case, where frost has begun creeping over the glass, like ivy taking over Echo’s old farmhouse, obstructing my view of the Small Thing.

 

My breath catches. “That’s not a good sign.”

 

I don’t know a lot without Echo, but I do know this. But I wonder if it’s a result of the unstable core? Or did First Man fail to close the small Thing in its tube correctly? Or is it _Their_ fault, the others’?

 

McCoy catches my eye and looks firmly at me. The antidote is working, fast, and I’m relieved. “It’s not what you’re thinking,” the doctor tells me. “You’ve seen this before, remember? On the Enterprise. Look at the readings.”

 

I stare at the readings blankly. I don’t remember.

 

“They are all stable,” Khan affirms, “just like the ones we took before we put him inside.”

 

I take this in, but it’s difficult to believe. But it’s more difficult to lose hope.

 

McCoy expects me to react a certain way—I say the first thing that comes to mind, because Echo has gone shockingly quiet about his son again. “We have to go.”

 

He exhales in disbelief. “You’re not hearing me, Jim.”

 

“ _It_ heard you, and so did I,” Echo says, and turns to First Man. “Get your crew, everyone who is awake, and bring them to me.”

 

McCoy exhales sharply, sounding dismayed. “What?”

 

“It’s time for us all to leave.”

 

McCoy looks at me incredulously. “You’re not really thinking we can just leave, are you? After all this time? And with Khan and his crew?”

 

“They have to go with us.” Echo doesn’t have time to explain why.

 

“I’m not going _anywhere_ with them,” McCoy argues. “Besides, what about the millions of people on this planet? We just leave them here?”

 

I know McCoy thinks it’s unfair—but like Echo told me before. _The needs of the few…_

 

“I’ll have to side with the good doctor on this one,” Khan murmurs, eyeing me carefully. “You can’t possibly think they’ll let us go.”

 

There’s a hidden accusation in his words that Echo failed to deliver what he promised—a plan to rescue them.

 

“They can’t keep us anymore,“ I say, as Echo reminds me what’s next. “You created an antidote—the deal was that you fix this and we get to leave.”

 

I use the term, we, loosely. Echo will leave—I don’t know what will happen to me. I die? _It’s too confusing for It to—_

 

“And the planet itself?” Khan asks.

 

I shake my head. “We have to go. I need to get the Small Thing—”

 

“Small Thing?” McCoy says softly. “Oh, Jim.”

 

“—away from here. Genesis isn’t keeping us here anymore. The planet is pure poison. We have to leave.”

 

“Genesis?” McCoy looks at Khan, then me. “I don’t understand.”

 

“Section 31 sent me and my crew—and Dr. Marcus—here to develop a planet that could sustain itself,” Khan says. “They wanted to use this planet’s core, despite its native population, and we were forced to alter the original project into something that would not kill them.” He pauses, then mutters, “Obviously, it didn’t work, and they’ve proceeded to blame us for their catastrophe.”

 

“How do we know you didn’t purposely sabotage the mission?” McCoy challenges.

 

Khan shoots him a dark look. “I knew what was at stake—my family. Just like Dr. Marcus knew what was at stake for her—her unborn child. And your captain. There was no room for error.”

 

“And Jim?” McCoy repeats, shooting me a sideways glance. “He was a bargaining chip?”

 

“Don’t answer that,” Echo tells Khan.

 

McCoy’s eyes narrow. “Why not?”

 

The less he knows, the better. “No time,” I say, instead.

 

Khan frowns at him, but says nothing.

 

I keep the information to myself, sensing Echo’s reluctance and continued gratitude for speaking for him.

 

He feels great guilt. A deep sense of regret that is confusing to me. I whisper to Echo that I don’t understand what bargaining chip means. He tells me Dr. Marcus had clearly cared for him far more than he had for her. He’d had been brought here to keep Dr. Marcus working faithfully on the Genesis Project. She’d initially refused to cooperate, seeing no way they’d let her live even if she did what they’d asked. But when Finnegan, bribed by Section 31, had kidnapped Echo, bringing _him_ here, threatening _his_ life, she’d continued her work.

 

I’m appalled. They’d _used_ Echo.

 

Echo swallows. “Let’s go. I’ll take David’s...cryotube,” he says hoarsely, when the silence persists. There is too much at stake to stop now. He steps forward, pleading with McCoy. He has to get the Small Thing off the planet. “Now, Bones. They promised. They’ll let us leave.”

 

“How?”

 

“We walk out.”

 

“That is your plan?” Khan snorts.

 

McCoy and I both ignore him. “They’re Augments, Jim,” McCoy says, taking my arm again. “We can’t trust them—”

 

“We have to, Bones. We have no choice. We’ll need their help to get the transport operable again.”

 

“And what if the Enterprise isn’t there?” McCoy asks. “We don’t know if they’re communications are working yet. And you know what? The probably aren’t. Norman, remember? And what about the other operatives here?”

 

Echo doesn't appreciate his sarcasm, but It can deal with it better than Echo can. “We’ll need the Augments’ help to fix that, too,” I say. “They’re intelligent enough to override what he’s done.”

 

“So are you,” McCoy says, frowning.

 

“Echo is, you mean,” I correct.

 

McCoy’s mouth opens, then snaps shut.

 

First Man looks at me strangely. “I am fascinated by this dissociation of yours, Kirk. It is unfortunate our time is at an end. I’d love to study—”

 

“He isn’t a fucking science experiment,” McCoy snaps.

 

But I don’t care what First Man thinks of me. Echo survived, hadn’t he? “This is a waste of time,” I say, abruptly. “We have to get moving. They’re in danger.”

 

“You won’t be going anywhere,” a new voice interrupts.

 

I turn and see Norman pointing a phaser at us and flanked by two Robot Peekers, and I’m reminded there are other Peekers and androids in the room, inoperable. No Name is armed, as well, and points another phaser at McCoy.

 

I’m not afraid. They arrived just as expected. “You can’t stop us.”

 

“Then you’re more naive than we thought. Really, I did think you were smarter than this, Kirk.”

 

Echo doesn’t like that and takes over. “You can’t keep us here,” he says coolly.

 

No Name snorts. “You are in no position to argue the matter. Besides, the core is still unstable, and our people ill.”

 

“You’ll be able to work the Androids again—I fixed them—and then they will assist you. Section 31 also promised they’d send supplies once Khan developed the antidote and fixed the core. And I promise _you_ ,” Echo says. “We will send help for your people. We won’t forget them.”

 

“We have no guarantee they’d keep their promises.”

 

“I will,” Echo says softly. “Every single one of them.”

 

“You speak like you’re one of them,” Khan says to No Name, “but you’re not. You’re an operative.”

 

“The Denebians,” Echo murmurs, frowning. “They’ve changed you, too.”

 

“It doesn't matter,” No Name scoffs. “I’m afraid I can’t let you leave yet. You know our secrets, Mr. Kirk. You know far too much.”

 

McCoy looks at me, bewildered.

 

“Telepathy,” Echo murmurs, unable to spare him a glance. His jaw clenches as he considers what this means to all of them. “It has to be. I think the Denebians feed on others and draw them here. Or, in No Names’ case, it has made him, through time, like one of them. He’s confused about his purpose here, thought to instill a penal system that would save the planet—” He stops, realizing it’s impossible to tell McCoy everything. He’s not sure he wants to, to spare him. He takes a deep breath. “It’s a long story, Bones.”

 

No Name smiles. “Too bad you won’t get to a chance to share it.”

 

Echo’s heart flutters fast in his throat. “I’ll stay—I know you won’t let me go, but please, I beg you—let the others leave. And…” He swallows hard. “My son.”

 

No Name chuckles. “You would love that, wouldn’t you? For all of them to go free, and you to be a martyr—again. But you know better than most that life just doesn’t go that way. That these Augments are worth more just like this.”

 

“Caged?” Khan challenges. “Battered? Weakened? Treated like animals?”

 

“Hmm,” No Name nods. “Indeed. We could use all of you and after what Starfleet has done to us—to me, leaving _me_ here—”

 

“You’re confused, No Name. That wasn’t Starfleet,” Echo hisses. “It was Section 31, an organization that—”

 

“—left you and your newborn child here to die?” No Name calmly interjects.

 

Echo’s chest heaves. It’s true, and he feels sick—so do I—but Echo isn’t done. “Yes,” he says, just as matter-of-factly, “And fuck them—but we—my crew and I—are not like that. We don’t kill just for sport.”

 

“Now, that isn’t exactly true is it?”

 

A heavy silence fills the room.

 

Echo knows what he’s insinuating—and hates it. “I did what I had to do,” he says thickly.

 

“Yes, your kill record is outstanding. What would your precious Bones think of you, if he knew?”

 

“Knew what?” McCoy turns to me, eyes wary. “Jim?”

 

“I had no choice,” Echo says with painful slowness.

 

No Name smiles. “You had plenty of choices.”

 

“You gave me no fucking choice—”

 

“You had two choices, if I recall.”

 

Echo tries not to, but his gaze flickers to where his son lies, frozen. “You gave me hell,” he whispers shakily.

 

“You gave it to yourself.”

 

Echo’s stomach rolls. “That’s not true.”

 

“Isn’t it? You chose to share a bed with Dr. Marcus, but then the guilt came,” No Name points out mockingly. “‘Oh, what will the doctor think?’”

 

Echo’s anger boils. “Stop twisting things around. I don’t even remember that night.”

 

No Name nods. “It’s no wonder—it’s been three years. Yet, there is a newborn in that cryotube.”

 

“Fuck you,” Echo whispers. “We’d had drinks, that’s all.” He doesn’t remember anything that happened that night, except that he’d met Carol at a bar at the Starbase. They’d had drinks, he tells me. He’d awakened the next day, smelling of alcohol, sweat and sex, but was alone, with only a note of apology from Carol on the pillow. “I know They had something to do with it!”

 

Everything about that night was blank page in his mind. _Everything_.

 

But because he’s at the center of everyone’s pain—and had sought her out, just to talk—he blames himself. He blames himself, and will never tell a soul. Because he— _and It_ —deserve to feel this pain.

 

He’d been unable to protect Carol. His child. Bones. His crew.

 

_He’d failed._

 

And, therefore, so had _I_.

 

No Name’s smile widens. “But it was the least of your problems, wasn’t it? Not that it matters anymore—we fixed that for you. The good doctor won’t have to worry about your eye wandering, anymore.”

 

McCoy blinks. “You bastard. You can’t go screwing with people like that!”

 

“Bones.” Echo squeezes his eyes shut painfully. He wants to retreat— _I don’t let him_. A tear slips down his cheek. That the doctor is ranting about that—how they’d changed his sexual orientation—and not that he’d slept with someone else—undoes him.

 

No Name shrugs. “But, like I said, that was the least of your problems. This was, after all, you’re own doing.”

 

_Your own doing_

 

“What does he mean?” McCoy asks.

 

The lump in Echo’s throat swells.

 

“Jim?’

 

“Like I had a choice,” Echo whispers, stricken.

 

“You did,” No Name corrects with a sneer. “Either we inject half the Augments with the disease and let them loose—and into the population, wrecked by their violent urges until the others discover the antidote—or we inject you.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” McCoy whispers, looking appalled. “And feed him to the wolves, instead? That’s no choice.”

 

It hadn’t been, Echo remembers. At the time, he couldn’t live with himself. He couldn’t bear to imagine what they’d do.

 

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Dr. McCoy.” No Name steps up to Echo, locking eyes with him. “He made choices this entire time. What was it you said to me? When it was time for the programming? Not that we programmed that much in you. Your past had a mind of its own.”

 

Echo’s expression closes. “Tarsus,” he grits out. “Make it like Tarsus.”

 

McCoy inhales a sharp breath. “Fuck, Jim.”

 

Echo can’t look at McCoy—he knows what this news costs him.

 

He hadn’t been able to live with himself, anyway. No Name is right—he’d done this to himself. All of it.

 

“You said it was the only way you’d survive, knowing your child would be put into cryosleep. Make it a game, you said. A challenge. I admit I may have taken a few... _liberties_...It was too tempting...” No Name suddenly pauses, looking at Echo suspiciously. “Wait, what did you mean, you fixed the robots?”

 

Echo slowly smiles. “I was hoping you’d ask me that.”

 

He lifts the programmer, and Its fingers hovers over the button.

 

No Name chuckles. “That won’t do a single thing to me.”

 

I smile coolly at him. “Oh, but We’re counting on it.”

 

I press the button, because I want to do this. _It_ does _._ It’s time for me to act. Echo taught me well. The Peekers come to life—really, No Name and the others?

 

They had it coming.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I’ll have the next chapter and end note up for you all soon!


	31. Epilogue: Supplemental 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! I thank you all for sticking with me to the very end! You are wonderful. ❤️ 
> 
> A special thank you to diamondblue4 and junker5 and their faithfulness as they edited and offered comments and support—even when they were totally in the dark like the rest of you! ;)

The Diary of Doctor Leonard H. McCoy

Supplemental 12

 

.  
.  
.

 

 

**Entry 3.0005**

 

 

Haven’t had the time to log but I better do it today before we leave the system. Thanks to Jim’s ingenious work with the Programmer, he “rewired” the androids to do his bidding. Turns out, that’s what Jim/Echo had been working towards all along, slowly, at the threat of his life, and when he was lucid enough as himself to do so.

 

We were able to disarm the Denebians who were in league with Section 31, and any Section 31 agents stupid enough to have remained on planet during the outbreak, without too much trouble and especially with help from Khan and the four crew members who were unfrozen.

 

Now that the antidote has been mass produced and given to the sick Denebians, we’re finally leaving. We’ve only been here a few weeks since we stopped No Name, but it seems like a lifetime. No Name, we discovered, was placed here by Section 31 years ago, but became his own god, so to speak. _Like Kodos,_ I heard Echo tell It. Everyone has experienced trauma in one way or another—it’s been a mess to untangle, but we, the crew of the Enterprise, are nothing if not resilient. Just like our Captain.

 

The planet’s been stabilized thanks to our diligent science team—and, believe it or not, Khan. Medical assistance from Starfleet has arrived, as have the dilithium and other agricultural supplements. The Denebians who were responsible for holding sway over our mental faculties have also apologized. They aren’t your typical telepaths—until the instability of the core disrupted their physiology, it had been long-suppressed. Since ancient times, apparently. Turns out, they had no idea how to control their newly emerged telepathy, and didn’t mean to influence us to stay this long, but had no way to counter Section 31’s interventions to prolong our visit planetside.

 

Not that Jim would have left without David—he wouldn’t have, and he didn’t, as proven by the state of his steadily degrading physical and mental condition. I hate to think what would have happened to Jim—and the others—and myself—had Khan not discovered the antidote when he did. And David—it tears me up inside to think that he could have easily never had the chance to live outside of that cryotube. I know Jim has had nightmares about it, himself.

 

I think I understand a little better now what Jim went through. I don’t blame him for what he did on Deneb V or judge him for it. He did the best that he could and found a way to survive against all odds. He couldn’t help that his mind retreated, although some of it was self-preservation on his part, too. But—Tarsus? I still can’t believe he endured another, similar horror by _choice_. Given the options he was given, he did what he could. I’ve never known a stronger man.

 

I will never forget—or forgive—that Khan killed Pike and thousands of others, but I thanked him for saving Jim’s life—and David’s—at the expense of his own family. I’ll have to admit that Jim thanked him first, which revealed how much integrity our captain has, even after what he’s gone through. Jim even spent some time with Khan at the Brig, talking with him.

 

As negotiated within the new Treaty—and per Spock’s suggestion—the Denebians will allow a team we’ve personally selected to consult with them for the next twelve months on planet to make sure the Enterprise crew experiences no further issues, and to prevent further misunderstandings. They’ve already discovered that their telepathy locks on to those who are empaths or near empaths. I’m not surprised. I think of Nyota, especially, who has such a caring heart.

 

Khan gave himself up, as long as we agreed with what Echo—or Jim—had promised him. That we would do all that we could to keep the remaining members of his crew safe and untouched. It’s too bad the rest of his crew died from complications, even those in the cryotubes. Khan will return to Earth alone and face trial—again. He hasn’t given us any difficulty so far. Section 31 and what happened on Deneb V certainly did a number on him—he’s no Augment. Not anymore. His inhuman strength has left him. I still can’t believe he willingly surrendered, but I guess after all he’s lost, his spirit just gave up, too.

 

I, for one, couldn’t wait to step foot on the Enterprise. Yeah, me. Can you believe it? Me. Maybe being on planet is overrated. We were detoxed and examined and treated for our chronic physical problems. I’ll continue to help Jim settle into his temporary quarters, which is conjoined with Spock’s. Jim, as his “not self,” that is. Echo went back in hiding, for the most part. Trauma, Spock reminds me, when I take this disappearing act too personally. We are in route for the nearest Starbase, where Jim will receive specialized treatment for his psychological trauma. After we arrive, and when I have what I need on hand, including my hand-picked medical team, I’ll be taking Jim’s precious baby boy out of his cryotube.

 

As I said before, Echo doesn’t talk to me, except for a few sentences here and there, when It doesn’t feel threatened—it’s interesting how protective It is of Echo. Our relationship—Its and Mine—and Jim’s—is complicated. I can’t get into all of this logic, with respect to Jim’s privacy. That’s between us. I know I was a bit—free—with information before. But, I’d been dealing with the side effects of the disease, and my own mental trauma.

 

Speaking of that...I don’t know what I’ll do if Jim doesn’t get better. I guess I can’t think like that right now.

 

I’ll focus on the good things. For one, that he’s alive. And, two...he’s not alone. And, three—unbeknownst to Captain Kirk, HQ would like to enlist his help once he is fit for duty, and assist a department tasked with obliterating all of Section 31’s manifestations, once and for all. I have a feeling this will be an ongoing, lifetime endeavor.

 

 

 

 

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**Entry 3.0089**

 

 

David James Kirk came into this world for a second time at 1400 hours today. We’re monitoring him closely, but so far, his vitals are where they should be. He’s healthy, vibrant, and Jim all over again. It was there to watch. Broke my heart he wasn’t “Jim” as we know him to be, but “Jim” is having difficulty processing all the trauma that he’s been through—and we couldn’t wait any longer for David’s sake. None of us knew what being under the cryo process for so long would do to a newborn. Echo told It he understood and agreed. And as David’s father, we needed Echo’s/Jim’s consent, first.

 

I’ve never seen a more perfect human in miniature form in all my life. He’s beautiful. Awe-strikingly beautiful. All the nurses came by to take a look. Spock and the bridge crew did, too. I’m not sure why, but when I was asleep, Jim/Echo set up a holovid so that Khan could see David out of his cryotube. Maybe Jim was trying to remind him of his humanity—if he has any left. I’m not sure, and I didn’t like it, but that’s Jim.

 

I think Jim is still afraid of me and the inevitable conversation we’ll have once he’s feeling more like himself. But, like I told Jim before we left the planet, David’s not a mistake. He’s a miracle. A goddamn miracle.

 

I’ll have my hands full for awhile. Jim signed custody of David over to me for the time being. I won’t be able to keep logs like I want to, but I’ll be back. With lots to say about a six-pound baby boy, although I’m sure he’ll weigh more by then.

 

Makes me think of Jo. I miss her.

 

I wonder what she’ll think when she gets the hologram of David that I sent her.

 

 

 

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**Entry 3.0090**

 

 

I haven’t logged anything for a few weeks. I haven’t had the time. DJ is four weeks old now and growing like a weed. He’s healthy and got a set of lungs like his father does when he’s getting his yearly shots. Makes me smile, but everything about DJ warms my heart, even the diaper changes. I love holding him when he’s freshly bathed and sleepy, but not quite off to dreamland yet. Those eyes of his—I’ve only seen one other set so blue and perfect. Jim’s.

 

I hate the trouble everyone’s been through—the fact that the entire Enterprise crew was presumed missing or dead for one year, thanks to Norman’s programming skills and the telepathy of the Denebians. It sends chills down my spine. But, maybe, some good will come out of it. Starfleet made an unexpected announcement yesterday that I’ll tell It about when I speak to him later this afternoon. They’re refitting the Enterprise to be suitable for families. We’ll receive new orders when the construction is finished. They estimate it will take about ten months. And we won’t be headed for deep space—or anywhere else that involves our usual risks. I’m not going anywhere without this child—or Jim. Neither is the rest of the crew.

 

I have a nagging feeling at the back of my mind about this whole thing with David—Section 31 had wanted this child. Had wanted _Jim_ to have a child. It doesn’t say much about it, but I know Jim/Echo doesn’t remember what happened between him and Carol. Not to the extent that he can explain anything to me. And being that Jim was brought here as a bargaining chip, I think there’s more to this matter than meets-the-eye. Meanwhile, Spock, Nyota, and I—and a few others—have decided we must remain vigilant and watch over DJ with great care. We’re taking no chances. None. It’s that simple.

 

I’ve heard Jim’s making amazing progress, and that he’s steadily gaining weight. But, I’ve also been speaking with It every day, so I’ve seen how healthy he’s looking. It fills me in on everything related to Jim—and then some. We have the most interesting conversations, discussing everything from the fuzz between Its toes after it wears Nyota’s crocheted socks to why Andorians become green if they’re in the water for too long. Sometimes, I’ve laughed so hard at something It said, that I’ve awakened DJ from his nap.

 

These holovids are always the brightest hour of my day, if I were honest. I look forward to hearing from him, and I swear DJ smiles when he hears Its voice, too, like I do.

 

Jim—Echo—if you’re reading this, it means a small part of you wants to listen to what I have to say, because we both know I’ve encrypted this log—but that has never stopped you from listening in before, you rascal. It also means you’re ready, whether you realize it or not. Like I knew you would be. No one can resist my charming character on these logs. Not even you.

 

And now that you’re listening, you need to know I want to talk to you. Just you. Just us, Jim. I can’t deny that I’ve been hurt, but I can get over something like that when Section 31 was a part of this deception. A big part.

 

And when there’s a tiny heartbeat of yours that I’m watching over.

 

Because something’s missing. You. Come back to me, Jim. To David. He needs his father. We need you. You’re our Light. And you need _us_ , to make things right. For us all to feel whole. Because we’re not. We’re not there yet. Not by a long shot.

 

I know you’ll do the right thing, Jim, because that’s what Captain Kirk does, no matter the cost to himself. But here’s the thing. This won’t cost you a single darned thing. In fact, you’ll get to hold the most handsome little boy ever born, and he’ll wrap you around his finger the second you see him face-to-face again.

 

I miss you. I miss you so much, Jim.

 

All my love,

 

Leonard

 

P.S. I nicknamed him DJ. Sorry I didn’t ask ya first, but it fits him, don’t ya think?

 

 

 

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**Entry 3.0090**

 

 

Addendum by Captain James T. Kirk

 

Bones, you put too much faith in me. I’m half the man I used to be, although Spock argues I’m twice the man—or three times, depending on how you look at it, and if you count David. I’ve made many mistakes but, like you’ve told It before, David wasn’t one of them. Nyota says he’s growing up strong and sweet in your arms. You say he needs a father. Bones, I argue he already has one. _You_.

 

I don’t know if I’ll ever be more than half-a-man again. For your sake—and David’s—I hope I can be. I know what it’s like to grow up without a father—and a mother. I’ll be damned before I allow my son to grow up without both of his fathers.

 

I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything, that I shouldn’t ask you for one more chance, not after all you’ve given up for me. For my child. I’ve put you through so much, already, more than would could fill a thousand lifetimes, but it has to be said. Will you play my message for It? To show him? To tell him I’ll be okay? I think It needs to know. The Vulcan healer helped tremendously, but He still slips out when I’m tired, which will be soon—it’s been a long day.

 

But you know that. And yet, you miss me. You want me—and my other self. I can’t fathom this, Bones. Do you realize how much baggage I have—that We have collectively—that you’ll have to carry? But I’ll humbly accept your invitation, because I miss you, and David, too.

 

I have one more request—meet me here this evening? Both you and David? I’m here, Bones. I’m on the Enterprise. Spock is with me, in my old quarters. Scotty is ready to beam you and DJ both aboard the ship. They got it approved it for the night. Two nights or however long it takes, actually. My doctor thinks being in a familiar place again will help. Nyota’s here to babysit if needed.

 

You were right. I’m ready.

 

I’m not afraid anymore.

 

Yours, and David’s, always,

 

Jim

 

 

 

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**Entry 3.0091**

 

Bones—

 

DJ sounds perfect.

 

—It and I, we both agree.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the first time ever, I’m adding my author’s notes as a chapter. I figured it would be easiest reading them this way, since I included so many. See Chapter 32 for concluding thoughts. And my rambles. :)
> 
> Also, if no one is as charmed by DJ as I am—and in the same way Bones is charmed by him—I have utterly and absolutely failed as a writer and will continue to wallow in self pity. LOL! ❤️ 😭 ❤️


	32. Final Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for my final notes, in the form of a book of random thoughts. LOL. Since this got so long, it made sense to add them as a chapter here, rather than try to fit them elsewhere. I think it’s also easier to read. ;)
> 
> I hope this helps those of you who still have a few questions. It’s altogether possible I forgot to mention one or two things in this note, so I’ll update it if I think of something else.

 

 

*It’s up to the reader to decide what happens next to Khan’s crew. I’m personally of the belief and insinuating in the fic that the remaining 36 are alive on Deneb and not a threat b/c Khan wants them to have a peaceful life. What’s left of their lives, that is. Their strength is gone, like Khan’s. They will live as long as a normal human. With peaceful relations with the Denebians ahead, it could be a better place for them, hidden away, maybe even feeling useful as the inhabitants on the planet “rebuild.”

 

*Reading between the lines, Starfleet will do whatever it takes to make things up to Kirk and the Enterprise crew b/c they can’t lose them after this huge mess. The press would irreparably damage their image. They’ll use it to their advantage, instead.

 

*The various anomalies surrounding Deneb and within this imaginary system created obstacles and interference, a result of the testing Section 31 for the Genesis experiment.

 

*Jim didn’t know Carol was pregnant until after he was brought to Deneb V. Had things gone “well” on the planet, she would have never told him, not for a long time, at least, because she wanted him to continue being the captain she thought he was meant to be. (And most likely she wouldn’t have wanted to interfere with him and Bones, who would have remained a couple.) She did care for him even though Section 31 contrived their “one night” and she let him go, also keeping him in the dark to try to protect him from Section 31.

 

*Jim endured so much emotional pain, despite her efforts, and lost himself in those three years to disease, a slow insanity, psychological trauma, guilt, and his own self-preservation. No Name created the Tarsus like scenario for Jim in his mind, although the planet was, indeed failing as a result of the inept Genesis project. Bones’s presence and his “tapping’ reminded him and pulled him out of it in the end, although Jim/Echo also knew the time was coming for him to act.

 

*Infidelity? Or something else? My initial plan and continued plan was that it was contrived infidelity thanks to Section 31, who needed Jim and Carol closer so they’d have a greater bargaining chip in Jim. This “bargaining chip” plot point was implied/mentioned in the fic several times. More specifically, I’d imagined Finnegan (or Section 31) drugging Jim and Carol both, or even just Jim, which induced their sexual fervor for each other one night and before she left for this mission, with no memory of it the morning. Carol then left before Jim woke up. (Or, Carol was partially complicit because of Section 31 threatening Jim’s life.) I had no idea how to detail either scenario very well in the fic since this story is all in Jim’s “IT” POV. Except to allude to actual cheating. Writing in Its POV made it difficult and almost impossible to detail in the fic except for info dumping, which I didn’t want to do. I’ve thought about writing that scenario and Jim’s confusion and despair after awakening as a one shot, too, but I have so many other things to write—it isn’t high on my list. So I didn’t write it in explicitly, thinking it wouldn’t “fit.” However, I’m letting you know now! Don’t forget, too, the other facts—the boys hadn’t clarified their relationship yet except for the physical act at least one time. (This quiet intimacy between Jim and Bones is also implied in the fic and Bones actually infers this in one of his logs.) There is NO mention of how serious things were, as I was leaving a lot of this obscure for the reader to decide for themselves. But, if you’re like me, you’d know they wouldn’t want anyone else but each other. ;)

 

*Section 31/Norman redirected or interfered with communications and did an exceptional job making things look “authentic” for the Enterprise crew, even Spock. The telepathic pull was also great and affected everyone on board.

 

*No Name became like Kodos in his own mind, as a result of the telepathy around him or the disease/core, and Jim’s inadvertent influence about Tarsus. He was also very bitter towards SF in the end, as well. No Name is called this….because I literally could not figure out a name for the guy. And then it stuck. LOL. What can I say? It sounded like something Jim’s It persona would do!

 

*I think that since Jim had once been resurrected with Augment blood, this helped him survive longer and slowed the progress of the disease and the effects of the core.

 

*I prefer to think Jim is approved for duty and returns to captain the Enterprise again. That he  
and Bones marry and live happily ever after, with DJ. <3

 

*I imagine Jo ends up living with them on the Enterprise eventually, and even joins SF someday. This series of events was a blessing in disguise, when one realizes it put Jo into the equation, too.

 

*This entire story is told from Jim’s “Its” POV, which proved challenging to me—to figure out how to hand you info without always info dumping, and to make sure you were seeing it from his eyes, even though you didn’t know this was this case until a later chapter. I know it frustrated some of you at times, since I kept you guessing, but that was the nature of the story.

 

*The story demanded to be told organically, and with some old-fashioned suspense. I trusted my instincts as I wrote it. I know it wasn’t easy—but here we are, at the end. Thank you for sticking with me and offering support. I appreciate it so much. <3

 

*It’s possible I’ll write more for this verse, or something to fill in a specific “vignette,” but I can’t say for sure yet. :) Let me know if you want to read something specific. Or not. Lol.

 

*I think It brings Snoops aboard the Enterprise. He is quite attached to it, and probably wants Girl to see it, too. Yes I also implied that the dog is also an Android. Poor Jim. :( He loved that dog.

 

*I have no idea what Girl’s real name is, BTW. Or what happens to her after she is saved. Or why she was able to go with McCoy and not the others. That one is a mystery for even me. Could be an interesting story there. Same for any other plot hole you discover. LOL. But don’t mention those, please—that’s a sure way to pull the rug from under me, okay? And crush the muse. I‘m a very insecure person. ;) I’m also as busy as you all are, and with chronic issues that don’t always make writing easy, especially with pain and brain fog. I’m aware there are and could be holes—but this was fun for me and free for all of you. :) I’d appreciate your graciousness about it. Little things like negative comments really shake things up for me, although I try very hard to not let them. 

 

*I absolutely love mysteries, but I hate figuring out the ending before the actual ending. This happens to me a lot as a reader—like, a LOT a lot—so I do all I can to prevent others from guessing my endings when I’m writing now. I could be shooting myself in the foot for leaving out so many tags, like Tarsus, for example, but I really wanted to keep the suspense.

 

*I love stories where love conquers all, and I feel like this is ultimately an example of that. Jim & Bones. <3

 

*I hope you all still read my stories after this one. :D I know it was twisty, but I hope you enjoyed it. It was written in little over a month, so no, wasn’t perfect, but I hadn’t expected it to be. This was for fun!

 

*Not sure which fic I’ll be working on next. I’ll just follow the muse. Hopefully, I’ll continue to be inspired and work on finishing the older ones. So many of you have been really patient with me—and that has NOT gone unnoticed. Cheers!

 

*And, again, thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading this particular story! I hope it touched your heart. ❤️ 


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